


Sympathy for the Devil

by Nonymos



Series: In the Dead of Night [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Breathplay, Caning, Clint has his own agenda, Dubious Morality, Extremely Dubious Consent, Foggy is a Ray of Sunshine, Gunplay, Handcuffs, Interrogation, M/M, Matt Gets Beat Up A Lot, Matt's Socks, Needles, PWP, Paddling, Psychological Torture, Sensation Play, Sensory Deprivation, Sexual Torture, Sounding, Subdrop, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, cell popping, dark!Clint, masochist!Matt, psychopath!Clint, there actually is a plot if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-03-25 09:57:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3806185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonymos/pseuds/Nonymos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt Murdock is the most interesting subject Clint's had in a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work can stand alone, though it _is_ a sequel to _Self-Indulgence_. I guess you don't need to have watched _Daredevil_ , either, if you're just here for the dark!Clint twistedness. Enjoy!

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Who the hell _is_ he?”

“That's the problem,” said Coulson. “We don't know."

"If Rogers hadn't been so thorough in bringing down our database...” groaned Hill.

Inside the interrogation room, the man was sitting on the chair, handcuffed to the table and starring at his hands. He looked very calm, almost serene, with a curve to his lips that wasn’t quite a smile yet looked like one. His black clothes were torn and crusty with filth. His bottom lip was split and he was absolutely covered in bruises. He sat there like he didn’t feel any of it.

Hill quirked an eyebrow at his battered state. “Did your team do this to him?”

“We actually wiped off most of the blood,” Coulson said. “He was dripping on the carpet.”

“Is he speaking?”

“Not a word.”

“Have you told him we were SHIELD?”

“He doesn’t believe me, or he doesn’t care,” said Coulson. “I don’t even blame him. We could be Hydra, for all he knows.”

 _“He_ could be Hydra, for all _we_ know. This guy _took out_ all of the Kingpin’s men,” Hill reminded him. “He was the last man standing in that garage.”

“Wobbling,” Coulson corrected. “Last man wobbling in that garage. I think he passed out a little bit while we transported him here, too.”

The man hadn’t resisted at all when they’d taken the mask off, hadn’t blinked, hadn’t reacted in any way. He looked utterly exhausted, actually—sitting heavy on that chair like the weight of his aches could sink it into the concrete. Coulson wanted to like him. He didn’t look like a bad man.

But Coulson had learned not to trust his own judgment when it came to the good and bad in people.

“He obviously had a long night,” he went on. “If not for that, we might have not caught him at all.”

“But we did catch him,” Hill said. “And he’s all we caught. He’s our only lead to the Kingpin, now.”

“Well, he can obviously take a lot of punishment, and I left my boxing gloves in my other suit anyway,” Coulson said dryly. “So what do you suggest?”

“Call Barton,” Hill said. “He’s in town.”

Coulson froze.

“No,” he said after an imperceptible beat. “Not for him.”

“Phil—”

“We don’t _know_ if he’s Hydra, Maria.”

“Yes,” she snapped, “that’s the _point._ We have to find out _now_.”

Coulson crossed his arms tighter. For a second, they both stared at the man hunched in the interrogation room. Coulson wasn’t seeing him, though. He was seeing Bakshi handcuffed to that same table and stammering _anything, I will do anything you want._

Hill must know what he was thinking about, because she spoke again, suddenly. “You keep saying Barton went overboard last time, but—”

“We knew without a doubt that Bakshi was a Hydra head,” Coulson said quietly. “This man might be innocent. Might be a _civilian.”_

“You sent out,” Hill said just as calmly, “a _full tactical team_ tonight to apprehend the Kingpin’s men. This guy shows up, does the job for us single-handedly, leaves no one in any state to be questioned, then tries to vanish in the night and nearly succeeds. _Innocent,_ Coulson?”

Coulson said nothing.

“Call Barton, Phil. We’re running out of time.”

 

*

 

The room they’d put him in was small and absolutely soundproof. His own breathing bounced off the walls to reverberate into his ears, telling him nothing but what he already knew—bare cement walls, door at his back. The sound he got was very even; the walls must be remarkably smooth. One of them might be a two-way mirror.

It had been a long, long night, and the pain in his back would not settle, as though fists were still pounding up and down his spine, flaring each time he breathed in. His head was slightly fuzzy. Going back to Venice Taxi had been a mistake; he hadn’t found anything new except for this unexpected third party. _Stupid._ He didn't know what they planned to do. For now, he was happy to rest, half-dozing on his chair with his eyes open.

He had no record, he kept telling himself, he had never drawn anyone’s attention—not as Matt Murdock in any case—and he had no online presence. They could not find out who he was. Even if one of his clients happened to be in the room, they might be hard-pressed to tell it was him with the blood crusting his face. His lips and brow _stung,_ dammit.

The man—the soft-voiced man who’d been in earlier—had told him they were SHIELD. Matt couldn't fathom why anyone would say that and expect him to cooperate. SHIELD could be Hydra, or they could simply be SHIELD and at this point Matt wasn’t sure which one was worse. He had heard stories about SHIELD, about iron muzzles and iron gloves forced on people with inhuman voices or inhuman hands. What could they do to him, he wondered. Put him in an iron maiden? He didn’t want to find out. Echolocation and enclosed spaces did not mix well at all.

He could not afford to talk to SHIELD. He could not afford to talk to anyone. Secrecy was all he had, and he simply did not know who had caught him. There was no sense in thinking too far ahead anyway. Sit. Rest. Practice your breathing. Wait for an opportunity.

The door opened again. Matt didn’t flinch. It was easy; he was too tired anyway.

 

*

 

Clint put his bag down without a sound, then leaned against the wall and looked at the man.

He seemed tired, more than anything, but there was a tension in his shoulders and thighs which screamed of awareness. The night was not over and this man was very much aware of it. Clint detailed the bruises marring his skin and the blood on the side of his face. The way he held himself; bruised or even broken ribs, which he hid fairly well. He was used to take a beating.

Clint took a silent breath. The excitement was steadily rising in him like he was being filled with dark water; something inside him was stirring awake, tilting its head, smelling blood. This one was special. All of his subjects were special, each in their own way. But this one…

Bakshi had been an easy job. He had no real strength. Only stubbornness and arrogance, and those only made the humiliation more acute when the subject realized he was human after all. Clint loved that—he lived for that cruel moment of awareness and the deep animal _fear_ it brought. This man, though, had strength and endurance written in blood all over him. No arrogance about it, either. He wasn’t posturing, wasn’t even acknowledging Clint’s presence. He was looking at his hands with a soft, distant gaze. Clint was pretty sure that faraway, detached look wouldn’t change even if Clint ripped off this man’s clothes and took him on the table right this second.

Clint straightened up and walked around the table to face him. The sound of his boots was very loud on the bare concrete. The man didn’t move, didn’t look at him.

Clint slipped a finger under his chin to make him look up.

He felt rough stubble under his fingertips, a cut along the jaw, a tender bruise around it. The man’s eyes were unremarkable, vague and dully colored. They didn’t quite meet Clint’s gaze.

“Look at me,” Clint said softly.

The man did no such thing. Clint raised an eyebrow. Maybe this wasn’t strength; maybe this was lockdown. People in lockdown he couldn’t work with. He moved his fingers, dug his nails in the cut along the jaw and got a hiss and a flinch in return. Good—he _was_ awake.

“Look at me,” he asked again.

Under his fingers, the man’s heartbeat picked up. He looked up. Slightly too much on the left. His pupils did not shrink in the light even as the bare light bulb was reflected in them.

Clint blinked, then let his chin go and reached into his pocket for his phone. He turned on the flash and directed the piercing light into the man’s gaze.

He did not flinch, did not look away, and his pupils didn’t react.

 _Holy shit,_ thought Clint, and snapped a picture so Maria and Phil would be none the wiser. They might still be looking through the two-way glass at this point; Coulson would just think Clint was starting a scrapbook of his victims or something.

Clint pocketed his phone again, then walked around the table to prop a hip against it. He wrapped his hand behind the man’s head, feeling blood-crusted hair under his fingers, and made him lean forward until he could rest his forehead against Clint’s side, in a parody of comfort. The man tensed, but went pliantly. He really was exhausted.

Clint ducked his head and talked low into his ear, slowly petting him as he did. “We came across another blind fighter last year.”

The man stiffened very slightly. Clint lowered his voice until he couldn’t hear himself. “But it turned out she used her eyes after all—she had infrared vision artificially installed and could see through her eyelids.”

The man was listening with great intensity.

“Better say it if that’s your case,” Clint breathed, mouthing the words rather than actually speaking them. “They’ll cut you up and find out.”

Another very slight increase in tension. Clint grinned. This man should not have been able to hear him but he obviously did. No infrared vision, then. He was genuinely blind. Must have been for a long time.

“Did you trade your sight for better hearing? That’s _some_ deal with the devil you made.”

Yet another minute flinch. Clint smiled. No way had this man taken out nine trained men with enhanced hearing alone. There was much, much more to be dug out of him. It wasn’t what SHIELD wanted, but that didn’t matter. Coulson understood nothing to what Clint was doing. He thought he was getting off on the pain. But Clint craved the _truth_ that comes out at the end of a session. When all pretense had been ripped away to leave the subject bare, in every meaning of the word. It was easy to make them talk _then,_ to retrieve the petty information SHIELD wanted. But getting there was a process which allowed absolutely no shortcuts.

“Don’t move,” Clint said. “I’m giving us some privacy.” He tilted the man’s chin up again and kissed him, tasting blood from his split lip; he pushed his tongue into the small wound to taste more and was rewarded with the jangle of the handcuffs’ chain suddenly tensing.

He heard the slight scratch of static which meant the two-way glass had turned opaque. As always, Coulson didn’t want to watch what he had hired Clint to do.

 

*

 

What the fuck, thought Matt, again and again and again. What the fuck. What the _fuck._

The man’s tongue pushed into his split lip again and he had to check himself not to whimper when the pain lit up his brain like a Christmas tree. The handcuffs were hurting him with how hard he was pulling at them, but it was easier to focus on that pain. Then the man _bit_ his lower lip and Matt gasped for air in his mouth, felt his tongue push inside to make him taste his own blood.

And then it was over.

“Sorry,” said the man right into his ear. Matt realized, now, that he was talking too low for a normal person to hear. He’d been careless. He was too tired for this, losing his grip on himself.

“I think we’re alone now,” the man went on. “Very few people like to watch me work, especially when it takes this turn.”

His voice was creeping Matt out. It was casual and even a little bit amused. None of it was faked. His heartbeat sounded a little quick, but out of excitement rather than any stronger emotion. Not like the soft-spoken man, who’d been tense and smelled of uneasiness. _This_ man—this man was having a wonderful time.

“I’m Clint Barton,” he said easily. “Nice to meet you.”

He was holding Matt’s chin again, and dug his nail back into his split lip. Matt hissed, just a little. The man—Barton?—inched closer, shifting his hips forward on the table. Matt’s heart rate was picking up again. He smelled a faint tang of arousal, a hint of musk barely perceptible through the thick combat pants.

Matt swallowed, throat dry and raspy with blood. He knew how to take a beating, but he’d never been raped before.

He swallowed again, then willed himself into relative calmness. This might be intimidation, and he couldn’t afford to give in to it. And if it wasn’t—well. He already knew how to go away in his own head. If it came to it, he’d endure it like he endured all the rest.

Barton laughed a little and it occurred to Matt he wasn’t just digging his nail into his split lip for fun—he was taking his pulse there, right into the throbbing wound. He must have felt it slowing forcefully back down.

“You’re good,” he said with genuine appreciation in his voice. “God, I’m fucking glad they called me in. It’s hard to find a competent dance partner out there.”

His other hand wrapped around Matt’s and a thumb rubbed over his scraped knuckles. “You know how to dish it out,” he said. “But do you enjoy it?”

Matt must have tightened his lips. The man laughed again. “You don’t? Aw, that’s a shame.”

His finger was digging into Matt’s lip again, prodding at the raw flesh, at the raw nerve endings, firing them up like long-forgotten light behind his dead eyelids. “Taking it, though,” he said, and his voice lowered again. “You like taking it.”

 _What the hell,_ thought Matt again, slightly more desperately. This couldn’t be SHIELD after all. This wasn’t an interrogation. Matt pulled at his handcuffs again, heard the jingling sound bounce off the walls, right back into his ears, telling him there was _no way out no way out no way out,_ just him and this man alone in a cube of cement with no one to watch.

God, he was so tired.

“Experiment,” Barton warned, and he pushed his face into the crook of Matt’s neck to bite at the muscle leading to his shoulder. Matt tensed, panted, unable to think with the pain so bright and loud in his brain, like fireworks in a shoebox. He whined loudly, unable to keep it in. He felt Barton smile against his neck, then release him.

“Sense of touch enhanced as well,” he said, “figures. Is this why you let yourself get pounded like this? Trying to numb the pain by taking too much at once?”

Matt’s breathing was getting shaky; he smoothed it back down again, but he was losing ground here. This was no good; he shouldn’t have been so flustered. Barton hadn’t even drawn blood. Maybe that was the reason, though. Matt knew the thumping pain of fists and the fiery pain of stabs. But this pain was in between, too sharp to be ignored yet too mild to be agony. It was exactly the kind he couldn’t handle.

He heard a smooth silky sound—a blade unsheathed. Matt exhaled. At least this would be familiar ground.

But Barton only grabbed Matt’s shirt and cut it up in one fluid movement, from navel to neck. He tugged it over Matt’s head, forcing him to duck his head, then made quick work of the sleeves to get past the handcuffs. Matt sat there, bare-chested, only too aware of the cold air moving in crisp waves over his skin.

“You don’t need me to tell you this is too thin fabric,” Barton said distractedly. “Doesn’t protect you and doesn’t keep you warm.”

The tip of the blade poked at a deep cut along his rib. “You should see yourself.” He sounded amused. “You look like a modern painting.”

And then he got to work on Matt’s pants. He almost literally ripped them off him, slashing with the knife whenever they resisted, then mercilessly cut up his underwear as well, tugged it all off. Matt had been sitting on this chair for quite some time, yet it felt still cold under his bare ass.

He swallowed again. Calming down was getting easier with each road bump. He was too tired for panic. He tried to make his peace with whatever would happen next, like he’d been taught. Mind over matter.

 _He’s going to rape me,_ he thought experimentally, and he almost didn’t want to throw up.

 

*

 

Clint was more and more interested, settling deeper into the subtleties of his subject. He was beginning to make out the main outlines of the clockwork, but it was a complex system. The man wasn’t exactly without fear. It was rather that he didn't let his fear matter to him. There was something greater beyond it—a cause, maybe.

Bakshi had thought he had a cause, but he had been quick to prioritize himself over it, crying when Clint hurt him and begging when Clint forced him. This man—he wasn’t even saying anything yet. Clint couldn’t imagine he’d cry or beg. He was obviously resigned to endure whatever would come next. Clint could work with panic and anger and despair, but apathy was a different kind of challenge.

He needed to find a chink in his armor. He sat there, thinking, dispassionately looking at his stripped victim shivering with exhaustion and cold. A cause, then.

A blind man—a gifted vigilante with a flimsy, useless suit. Artisanal—he worked on his own. The suit was probably to be worn under his clothes. He had a day job then, and an important one at that; he wouldn’t have needed such utterly discreet clothing under a garbageman uniform, or if he worked from home. He had tiny scratches over his Adam’s apple, as if he’d hurt himself taking off a tie in a hurry. A banker, maybe? An accountant? Possible but not likely; he _was_ blind. A job where he didn’t need his eyes, only his voice. Strong sense of justice. Well-dressed. Using his voice. A lawyer?

Clint took out his phone again; the screen cast a blue glow over the naked man’s skin. He was very well-built, which did nothing to help with Clint’s hunger. He wasn’t exactly trying to hide himself—being undressed wasn’t enough to break him, unsurprisingly; but the humiliation still made him hunch slightly on himself. Clint let him soak it in and googled _Lawyer firms Hell’s Kitchen_.

And there it was, third result on the first page—the picture was blurry, but the round black glasses were clearly visible.

They did say justice was blind, after all.

“Matt Murdock?”

The man froze, then ducked his head and smiled, humorlessly. It was a dejected, crooked little smirk, as if mocking himself for thinking he could hide his identity for very long.

“We’ll send out for this Mr… Franklin Nelson,” Clint said, scrolling down. “I have a feeling he’ll be more talkative.”

“Foggy doesn’t know anything,” Murdock said tiredly.

Clint smiled in the corner of his mouth. “Hey, it speaks. This calls for a celebratory drink.” He grabbed a bottle of water in his bag, cracked off the lid and pressed it against Murdock’s lips. Murdock's head jerked back a little like a spooked horse; he froze, hesitant.

“I have needles if I need to drug you,” Clint said calmly. “Drink.”

Murdock parted his lips; the water mostly trickled down his chin and dripped onto his thighs, which flinched with each drop, but he managed to swallow a few mouthfuls. He ducked his head again, as though it was too heavy to hold upright. Somehow, Clint was fascinated by these unmoving eyes which didn’t follow any of his movements.

Murdock licked his lips. “You do realize,” he said quietly, “that I won’t buy the good cop bad cop routine.”

He had a soft, tired voice, low-pitched as though not to scare anyone.

“You’d be surprised what people will buy when I’m the one selling,” Clint said, twisting the lid back on, “but that’s a story for another time.”

He put the bottle back on the table. “I’m going to slap you,” he said. “On your right cheek. Ready?”

Murdock said nothing, but he didn’t flinch when Clint backhanded him hard enough to make his head jerk to the side. The force of the blow reopened his split lip which had never really stopped bleeding anyway.

“Again,” Clint said. “Left cheek this time.”

He slapped him even harder, left him reeling for a second—not reeling exactly; Murdock could take much worse. This pain simply gave him pause. He had a tiny crease between his eyebrows, and he was losing his breath more easily, though hurriedly smoothing it back down every time, trying to keep himself under control.

“I’m sure you have a way to feel them coming,” Clint said. “Is it the air moving before my hand?”

Murdock spat a bit of blood and said nothing. His breathing had gotten deeper still. Clint licked his lips, then grabbed his bag. He was really glad he’d brought his stuff with him this time around.

 

*

 

Matt didn’t know what he expected as he listened to Barton dig into his bag. Barton was still sitting on the table, facing him; yet Matt got taken off guard when strong thighs wrapped around his neck to keep his head upright. He let out a surprised sound and tugged at his handcuffs, but he couldn’t move without Barton threatening to break his neck.

The next thing he knew, his head was getting stuffed in a hood.

It was thick leather and covered his whole head—his eyes and his mouth and his ears, clinging to his skull, flattening his hair. There were only two holes poked in there for his nose. His breathing picked up at once, even as Barton released him from the stranglehold. Another second and he was losing control of his heartbeat as well. This was like being stuffed in a box. This was _worse_ than being stuffed in a box. There was a metallic zipper over his mouth, digging into his split lip, adding an iron tang to his blood.

Barton grabbed his neck and forced him to get up, as much as his handcuffs allowed; Matt was so disoriented he almost lost his balance. Somehow, he’d managed to forget he was naked, but he was acutely conscious of it now. Barton pushed him forward, made him bend over the table.

 _God._ Matt tried to tell himself to endure, but the leather hood was too tight, too constricting, suffocating. The chain of his handcuffs was tense, a cold hard line against his bare stomach. Barton kicked at his legs to spread them. Something cold touched his calf, then tightened like a vise. Matt realized Barton was chaining his ankles to the legs of the table.

The hands went away, and Matt stayed there, trying to breathe in the hood, hyper aware of the chains holding him down, of the table under his stomach, of his bare ass and his spread legs.

He felt like he’d been left there for several minutes before a hand rubbed the back of his neck before going down his spine.

The gesture was soothing, yet the touch felt like a lick of fire. In his claustrophobic aquarium, Matt could hear nothing, feel nothing, save for what his skin was telling him. He couldn’t control his heart rate anymore. His ribs hurt, his whole body hurt, and he tried to find a calm place in his head, somewhere he couldn’t be reached. But he was too tired, too panicked, thinking despite himself, despite decades of blindness _I can’t see I can’t see I can’t see—_

Barton’s hand weighed on his neck again. There was a fumble around the hood; then Matt heard Barton’s voice, too close—he was talking with his lips against the leather.

 _“You’re freaking out,”_ he said, voice muffled through the thick cloth. _“Is it some kind of echolocation? Is that how you do it?”_

Matt exhaled shakily. Barton knew his name, knew his face, knew he was blind and knew what he could do. He had gutted him open in less than an hour. Matt hadn’t said a word and yet he’d somehow given him everything.

He should have spoken up when he had the chance, engaged and deflected, but he’d been too tired to think; he hadn’t paid attention, hadn’t realized how much this man was getting to him until it was too late. _Sloppy._ Belatedly, Matt realized he couldn’t talk with the zipper pressed against his mouth. He struggled a little, but his legs were chained widely spread, and his hands still firmly bound to the table. He tried to calm his breathing again and failed. He wanted this thing off. He wanted it _off._

Barton’s hand sneaked under Matt’s chest to grab one of his hands. Matt didn’t expect that, and didn’t know what to do with it. He didn’t hold onto it, but couldn’t really push it away, either.

He felt Barton’s other hand leave his neck, then go down his back and sides. It was so hard for Matt to keep himself in check that he only realized after a minute that Barton was examining his wounds—old and new. He wasn’t being exceedingly gentle about it, pressing down on the bruises and slipping his fingers into the cuts to check how deep they were. Matt found himself clutching at his hand after all. Whenever he squeezed too hard, Barton relented. Or it felt like he did. Maybe it was just a series of coincidences.

Matt focused on his breathing and clung at Barton’s hand through the body check. He waited for it to be over. It was what he did best.

 

*

 

Murdock was getting used to the hood; after a moment of utter panic, he started paying attention to Clint’s touches, flinching violently every time Clint brushed a cut. The leather mask looked great on him. He was just a warm body chained to a table now, anonymous and spread wide. Clint was getting hard, couldn't exactly help it, but Murdock expected to be fucked and this wasn’t what he was getting. Not today. He was a truly rare one, and Clint didn’t want to rush the job.

He reached out to open the zipper over his mouth. Murdock gasped for air, twitching in his restraints, involuntarily jerking his hips against the table.

“You know,” Clint said, with his lips to the leather so he could hear, “there’s a good chance we’re on the same side.”

“SHIELD isn’t on anyone’s side,” Murdock let out. His voice was still calm and pitched low even as he hyperventilated; he’d done an intense effort on himself to let the full sentence out in a neutral tone before he started gasping again. Clint liked him even more for that—and also for what he’d said. Murdock was clever, unsurprisingly.

“Tell me about it,” Clint smiled. “Jesus, the shit they’d do to you if they realized you’re gifted.”

Murdock panted against the table for a minute.

“Don’t worry about SHIELD,” Clint went on, rubbing a cut below his shoulder blade, looking as the muscle twitched in small tremors. “They don’t realize what they caught. All they expect from you is the Kingpin’s name.”

“I don’t know it,” Murdock managed again, still quiet and calm but a bit too quick.

 _“I_ do,” Clint smiled. “He tried to hire me once. Said no—people like me are better off on the side of the angels. Seriously, don’t worry about SHIELD, I'll tell them what they want to hear."

He idly dug into a dark bruise on Murdock’s side, making him tense and exhale shakily. “I was talking about myself. We’re two halves of a whole. I really, really want to hurt you. And I think you really, really want to be hurt.”

Murdock huffed a hoarse laugh through the open zipper. Blood was shining on the metal ridges. “I don’t need your help for that," he said in his low, smooth voice.

Clint stuck his thumb into a cut, worked his nail along the edge. “Guess you don’t.” He pressed down, eliciting a strangled whine. “But I’m better at it than they are.”

Murdock was panting again, focusing on the pain Clint was giving him, ankles straining against the restraints. Tied like this, he should have been obscene, but there was nothing sexual about his nudity. Not to him, anyway. Clint took his limp cock in hand and Murdock stilled, breathing in quick little gasps.

“You’re not getting hard,” Clint said, releasing it and lining up their hips together, slowly moving against Murdock’s ass. God, the friction felt good; _he_ was very much aroused by now. “This really isn’t about sex, isn’t it? It’s the pain. You’ve taken so much you never really stopped to wonder why. Did you know seventy-five percent of professional boxers can clinically be considered masochists?”

He’d pulled that number out of his ass, but it might actually be true, for all he knew. He pressed the hard line of his erection against Murdock’s exposed ass, grinding down, rough fabric against bare skin.

“I’m going to zip the hood shut again and give you a hard caning,” Clint said, lips moving against the leather. “Ass and thighs. Fifty blows. You’re allowed to scream but I know you won’t want to. After that you’ll go home.”

Murdock took a breath as if he wanted to say something, but Clint zipped the hood shut before he could get the words out.

 

*

 

Matt could not move and could not think and could barely breathe in the constricting hood. This was taking yet another unexpected turn and he didn’t know where to go from there. Exhaustion and pain and the anticipation of pain were wracking him from the inside. He could endure. He could. He _could._ He would always get back up. This was what he did.

When the first blow cracked across his ass, Matt jerked bodily and tugged at his handcuffs, gasping for breath while his brain _lit up_ like the Fourth of July. The hood deprived him of all senses and turned them inwards—except for the sense of touch on the bare surface of his skin, crackling with static, and the line of pain was hot hot _hot_ like a branding iron, burrowing into his flesh, pushing what little air he had out of his lungs. Another blow came, and another, and another, and Matt was going blind again with lights firing up and away under his skin, pain skittering in waves up his nerves to set his brain aflame.

The cane was cruel—rattan or bamboo, Matt wasn’t sure. A calloused hand rubbed at the inflamed skin of his ass, working the pain deeper into the flesh. Matt was getting dizzy with exhaustion and oxygen deprivation and a first rush of endorphins. He tugged at the chain of his handcuffs and desperately tried to breathe or even _think,_ but he was losing himself. The hand went away and the blows started again, this time on his thighs. With his legs spread, there was nothing Matt could do to protect himself—Barton worked over the left thigh, again and again and _again_ until he finally switched to the right one, filling Matt with unwilling gratitude for the fake reprieve. It hurt so _bad,_ and the numbness which usually came along with the pain wasn’t there; because of the hood and because Barton wasn’t actually injuring him, Matt’s awareness was cranked up to the max, and he felt each blow with sharp, horrible acuteness. He hadn’t thought of counting. Barton had said fifty blows. How many had it been? He didn’t know. He couldn’t think past the pain—he could do nothing but take it; he could do nothing to keep it from ripping through him.

There was another pause during which he desperately tried to breathe a little. Then the cane came down hard on his upper thighs again and Matt arched, straining in the hood. He had reached a new stage somehow. His head was buzzing with something hot and feverish. He felt like he was dying with each blow and coming back to life in between—constantly switching between _can’t take it can’t can’t can’t_ and _could do this forever,_ with the endorphins pushing him forward and making him crave more, more of this exertion which didn’t injure his body—only _hurt,_ masterfully so. Barton was right—Matt had never stopped to process the pain. It had always been there, always a background buzz to bigger problems. But right now, there was nothing he could physically do but _feel_ it. There was nothing else to focus on.

Another strike, _sharp,_ right under the meat of his ass, like a jolt of electricity, like a battery plugged _right_ into his nerves—his world narrowed down to the line of agony across his oversensitive skin, expanded again as he breathed, then tunneled right back down with the next blow, even harder, _sharp_ across his ass. Quick waves of flames licked up his nerves into the clutter of his spinal cord every time, like a lightning bolt ramifying in reverse to shoot up right into his brain. Matt’s thoughts were running wild, completely disjointed, jumping from one idea to another without any connection in between, bursts of sensation chasing each other in the maze of his frying neurons. He wondered how it would be to be _actually_ burned, pictured Clint pouring alcohol over his body and flicking a lighter—setting ablaze the top layer of his skin, flaying him with fire, dousing more alcohol over the raw flesh to disinfect it and make him _scream_ —it was insane to think like that, he knew, _mad mad mad he’s driving you mad,_ but there was no one to save, no one to take down, nothing to face but the pain and what it did to him.

Matt felt like the hood was shrinking around his head. He tried to breathe, couldn’t do it—it didn’t matter as pain exploded like fireworks in his head yet again, just as loud and just as bright—he had lost his sight so many years ago, but the lights he was seeing now were a fiery _nova_ —he wasn’t screaming, only gasping desperately for air, because he was focused entirely onto himself and into himself, utterly mesmerized by the enormity of what was happening in him. His entire body was buzzing with pain, almost vibrating with a manic exhilaration. He was shaking, shaking so bad, rattling the chains holding him down, like a demon shaking its cage, _be careful of the Murdock boys, they’ve got the devil in ‘em the devil in ‘em the devil in ‘em_ and he could feel it now, the devil in him, howling with rage at the darkness they’d locked him in, howling for the heavens and for paradise lost, for the skies he couldn’t see, down in Hell’s kitchen, _more pain, more pain, more pain,_ for this body which wasn’t enough, for this miserable body built to endure and to take, so _take it, take it, take it!_ He was desperate for more and he got more—another blow, and then another one and another one and another one, it didn’t _stop_ , he couldn’t have taken that only a few minutes ago but his endorphins levels were _through the roof_ and the pain was roaring up his nerves in a dazzling blaze, and it was _perfect,_ lighting him up just right, just _right,_ shaking off the numbness and the exhaustion to leave only pure bright _glory,_ firing up behind his dead eyelids again and again and again and again—

“Breathe,” someone was saying, and had he stopped breathing? The constricting leather was gone. He was still cuffed, but someone was bringing him down on the cold cement ground, heaven against his skin—his ass and thighs were on fire, and he was so certain the skin had been ripped off he was surprised to feel no blood. He was hyperventilating, eyes wide open, still sightless, clutching at smooth fabric with his bound hands.

“You're done,” said the voice. Matt felt crushed with an irresistible exhaustion, like a tidal wave of silence rising from the abyss to seize him. "Till next time," the voice whispered, then lips pressed against his forehead and everything went still.

 

*

 

“Asleep?”

“Completely exhausted,” Barton said absently, tapping at his phone. “He’s not Hydra. He’s not Kingpin’s either. Just another wannabe vigilante completely out of his depth.”

The man seemed to be sleeping soundly indeed, curled up on the cot in the corner of the interrogation room. Coulson pinched his lips. There was no footage to be checked—this wasn’t the hi-tech underground cell of the Playground—but their prisoner didn’t have that frazzled, febrile look Bakshi still had on a bad day. He was just sleeping.

Still—Coulson was pretty sure he wasn’t wearing standard-issued sweatpants two hours ago.

“And how come he changed clothes?” he asked.

“Would you _relax,”_ Barton smirked. “His suit was in tatters.”

Coulson distantly wondered how they’d gotten there—a few years ago Clint Barton was the most promising agent he’d ever known; and now Coulson’s first impulse was to wonder whether he’d raped their suspect or not.

“I’d advise to just let him walk,” Barton shrugged. “He was trying to help, and tonight was punishment enough.”

“Fine,” Hill said crisply, “but do you have the Kingpin’s name?”

“Sure,” Barton said, scratching his nose. “Wilson Fisk. Since when are you bothering with organized crime, though?”

“Since Hydra might be giving them weapons. You’re positive this guy is no threat?”

“To himself maybe,” Barton smiled. “Otherwise, no.”

“And he can’t prove we’re the ones who grabbed him?” she said, looking at Coulson, who shook his head. “Alright. Leave him on a bench in front of the nearest ER at sunrise, standard procedure.” Hill was already tapping away at her communicator. “Thank you, Barton. I’ll see you soon.”

“Take care,” Barton called as she left the room.

He glanced at Coulson and held his gaze for a second. Then he broke eye contact. “Seriously, Phil. I’m not asking for a smile on top of the paycheck, but stop making that face. Or maybe conduct your own interrogations next time.”

Coulson swallowed both his scowl and his guilt. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s been a long night for me too.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose for a second. “Thank you—for your help.”

Clint looked at him for another second, then smiled, the crooked smile which made Coulson want to like him even after—everything. “Always a pleasure, sir.”

 

*

 

The sun was just rising when Matt got home. His apartment must still be dark. Not that it changed a thing.

He stripped down to his boxers, flinching when the soft cloth of his sweatpants slid over throbbing bruises. He traced the hard lines left by the cane. They were the easiest to follow, almost geometrically perfect in a blur of cuts and bruises, layered across his thighs and ass. He wouldn’t be able to sit comfortably for a while.

Outside the window, he knew, the giant billboard for Xining Airways blossomed in an eternal spring, bathing his living room in swaying colors. Matt counted again the lashes across his thighs. Each touch a distant burst of forgotten light.

His phone buzzed low on the couch. Matt hadn't turned the ringtones back on yet; he didn't know who it was. He let it ring for a minute before he answered.

“Hello,” he said.

 _“Matt!”_ Foggy. Just Foggy. Matt exhaled. _“I’m sorry for calling so early. Though, you usually get up at six, right? Anyway—Karen bought some office supplies and—”_

“Foggy,” Matt said. “Did you put up the website?”

_“Huh? Oh yeah. Did that just yesterday, actually. Nelson and Murdock, attorneys at law. There’s a picture and everything.”_

“Of me?”

_“Of both of us. Is that a problem?”_

“No,” Matt said. “No, that’s okay.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair and sat on the couch. He let the familiar intonations of Foggy’s voice lull him into a calmer state. His hands were shaking, he realized. Not exactly with fear.

_“Matt?”_

Matt shook himself up. "I'm here."

_“Everything alright? Did I wake you up?"_

“I’m fine, Foggy. Got in a few good hours of sleep, actually.” He infused a smile in his voice. “Thank you. For calling.”

_“Are you sure you’re okay?”_

“Yeah. See you in a bit.”

He hung up and sat there for another minute, gathering his strength for a shower. Sleep, heal, eat, sleep some more. In a few nights he’d put on his mask again. Go out, go back, keep chasing. Keep moving.

Forget about the rest while you still can.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are verrry appreciated :D The next chapter will be here in a few days.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags are updating as we go, so keep an eye on that if needed. :) But I assume you got the general gist of the fic already.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Take off your pants.”

Matt smiled, pulling at his split lip. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Matt.” Claire sat down next to him; a second later, something cool pressed against the deep cut along his jaw. It felt good for a second before it started stinging. “Blood poisoning beats modesty.”

“I don’t have any wounds under the belt—” Matt hissed when Claire dabbed harder at his cut.

“Is that why you sat on my couch like it was made of needles?”

“Just bruises, Claire. I’m fine.” He waited for a beat, then said, “I’ll just go ahead and assume you’re looking unimpressed right now.”

Claire snorted and got up. Matt heard her walk to the sink and turn on the water to wash her hands. He brushed the surgical tape holding his forehead wound together.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

She sighed, then came back to him.

“Did you make any progress at least?” she asked, sitting next to him on the couch.

“Not last night, no.” She pushed a glass of water in his hands and he drank gratefully. “There was a third party on site,” he added, licking his lips.

“A third party?” she said, alarmed. “Who were they?”

“They’re not here to stay. I don’t think we should be worried.”

There was a long silence. Matt wished he could have detailed the look on Claire’s face. He sat there with the cold glass in his hands.

“You’re deflecting,” she said eventually.

Matt smiled again.

“You’re not even good at it,” she said, taking the glass from him and going back into the kitchen. “Get out of my living room, Matt, it’s almost nine.”

“Thanks again,” he said, getting up. He shrugged on his jacket with slow movements, mindful of the aches in his shoulders and back, and put on his glasses before grabbing the cane he’d left by the door.

“Matt,” she said before he left.

He stopped. Then he turned towards her again, knowing that his glasses would at least give her the illusion he was looking her in the eye. “They won’t hurt you,” he said. “Of that I’m sure.”

“Still not what I wanted to hear,” she yelled at him, but he was already out the door.

 

*

 

“Oh Jesus, Matt, your _face!”_ Foggy hissed when he came in.

“Would you believe me if I told you it was another door?” Matt smiled.

“What,” Foggy said, “you walked into it so it beat the hell out of you?”

“Hello, Matt— _Jesus,_ Matt!” said Karen from behind him, coming into the room with a pile of papers, judging by the sound.

“That’s what _I_ said,” Foggy pointed out.

“It’s not that bad,” Matt said, though he had no idea, really. “The usual story, I’m afraid. I’ll be more careful next time.”

Karen made a sympathetic sound. Matt smiled then put his cane down to go sit at his desk. He remembered what Claire had said and was mindful not to show any discomfort this time, but the pain burrowed into his muscles when he sat down and he couldn’t keep his breath from hitching a little.

He wished he could have shown someone the bruises so they’d tell him which color they were. Purple and black, he ventured, if how they felt was to be believed.

“Did anybody ask for me?” he asked, trying to sound neutral.

“No,” said Karen from the other room. “Are you expecting a call?”

“Sort of.”

Foggy brought him some coffee, and it was without question the best thing that had happened to him today.

 

*

 

Matt gave himself three days to get better.

He did his exercises and managed to reduce the ache in his ribs enough to consider going out at night again. He needed new clothes, though, and went shopping during his lunch break for black sportswear. He was hyperaware of his surroundings, scanning the crowd around him for abnormal heartbeats; but no one approached him save for a helpful saleswoman.

Every night, he got home expecting to find his door already open, but no one was waiting on his couch to make him an offer he couldn’t refuse. He didn’t know how to ask Foggy and Karen whether they’d been followed without arousing their suspicion. He called them every night with various excuses, but they never sounded particularly stressed or worried.

He did not want to let his guard down, but he had other problems. And SHIELD would have come after him by now. Wouldn’t they have?

On the fourth night, he couldn’t go out. The bruises on his ass and thighs were fading, the throbbing pain turning into a dull ache, but his ribs still protested too much when he swung his left arm.

On the fifth night, Matt lowered his mask over his eyes and went on the hunt. It felt like breathing again for the first time since Clint Barton had stuffed his head in a leather hood.

On the sixth night, someone knocked on his door.

 

*

 

“Hey,” Clint said.

Murdock just stood there. He looked _much_ better than the last time Clint had seen him. His bruises had spectacularly receded, just like the dark rings under his eyes. He was very handsome, and the natural curve of his lips into the faint shadow of a smile didn’t hurt. He didn’t look surprised—didn’t betray any emotion, really, impassive behind his dark glasses. But he still stood there for a bit too long.

“Didn’t expect me to just knock?” Clint said, amused.

Murdock’s lips twitched a little—aborted smile or scowl, Clint couldn’t say. “It wouldn’t have been my first guess,” he answered in his reserved tone.

“Love the glasses,” Clint said sincerely.

He got another minute quirk of the lips in return, fainter than the first.

“Can I come in?” Clint asked.

Murdock stepped back without a word. His dark glasses gave Clint the feeling of being tracked as he walked across the room, taking it in. It probably wasn’t just an impression, even though Murdock couldn’t actually see him.

“You didn’t tell SHIELD about me,” Murdock said, closing the door.

His voice had the smooth, quiet quality Clint remembered. Partially deaf people tended to speak louder, so Clint supposed it made sense for Murdock to talk in a low-pitched tone. He was excellent at schooling himself, when he wasn’t chained naked and spread to a table with no way to tell what was happening around him.

“I said I wouldn’t,” Clint said, looking out the windows to check the perimeter out of habit. The apartment’s view was interesting, to say the least. He looked at the digital cherry blossoms for a couple of seconds. “This was never about them. Are you surprised?”

“Somewhat,” Murdock said quietly.

He didn’t flinch or move when Clint came closer, and didn’t react either when Clint reached out to press his thumb against his split lip. He stayed still, dark glasses fixed on him.

When Clint increased his pressure, Murdock did hesitate—but the next second he parted his lips and let Clint push two fingers into his mouth. His tongue flattened and pressed against the digits, not quite sucking; then he gasped softly and grabbed Clint’s wrist to pull his hand out.

“What are you doing,” he asked, low.

Clint smirked, then walked into his space.

“Sounds like something you’d ask before sucking on my fingers,” he said into his ear.

He got even closer, pushing him back. Murdock went, not resisting but not quite giving in either, still holding Clint’s wrist. He stopped a few inches before actually hitting the wall. Right—echolocation. Or maybe he just knew his own place well enough.

“You straight?” Clint asked, inches from him.

Murdock’s expression was unreadable. “Yes.”

“Good. I like it better when they aren’t enjoying themselves.” Clint kissed him hard, then hooked his leg behind Murdock’s ankles and tugged so suddenly he fell down hard on his knees.

 

*

 

Matt’s training prompted him to get up at once, but Barton grabbed his hair and _twisted_ so hard Matt actually felt his scalp tear a little. He stopped, panting, freezing again, then gasped when Barton pressed his knee against his throat, pinning him against the wall—just shy of crushing his windpipe. Matt didn’t move, only gasped for breath as Barton removed his glasses.

The thing was—Matt had no doubt he could have broken the hold. His hands were free; he could have pinched the tendons under the knee Barton was pressing against his throat, or snapped his ankle. But he _wasn’t_ doing it. Barton was overpowering him through something else than sheer fighting skills.

Barton slipped something out of his pocket and forced it into Matt’s mouth. It was cold and hard and metallic, like a bit; he buckled it so tight behind Matt’s head it hurt the corners of his lips. Matt’s thoughts were chasing each other, trying to make sense of it all. He’d never frozen up like this before. Why wasn’t he fighting back? Because—because this _wasn’t_ a fight; he wasn’t under attack. Or—was he? How could he not even figure _that_ out?

Barton knew all his secrets, knew where he lived and where he worked. He could have blackmailed Matt or threatened his friends. But he hadn’t even bothered. He wasn’t here for elaborate plans, either.

He was just here to _hurt_ him.

 “Alright,” Barton said, fisting Matt’s hair again before moving his knee away from his throat. “I’m gonna take the edge off.”

He cranked something at the corner of Matt’s mouth—and the gag _spread,_ forcing his jaws open. Matt let out an inarticulate sound, then another when Barton cranked the gag even wider, almost dislocating his jaw. The metal was unforgiving, digging into his palate and tongue and at the corners of his lips. It wasn’t a bit; it was a dental mouth gag, Matt realized—something an oral surgeon would use.

He smelled musk, heard Barton’s zipper open. He was losing his breath again.

 

*

 

Murdock fought a little when Clint tugged himself free from his underwear—twitching in Clint’s stringent hold on his hair, letting out low open-mouthed sounds through the gag. He couldn’t stop Clint from feeding him his cock, though—the sounds turned more helpless then, small muffled moans he couldn’t control as he struggled to breathe, backed against the wall with Clint’s hand in his hair. Clint gave a warning tug as he sheathed himself all the way down. Murdock gagged and tried to pull away again; Clint tugged harder, bringing him in line.

“All of it,” he said.

Murdock’s breathing was erratic, coming out in bursts through his nose. Clint wrapped his free hand around his throat and pressed on the bump there, making him choke and retch.

“Here,” Clint said. “Angle your head further back.”

Murdock was tearing up—a firm hand in one’s hair and a cock down one’s throat would do that to a person—but he managed not to throw up, drooling around the surgical bit and visibly fighting his own gag reflex. Clint tightened his hold on his hair and on his throat, making sure he couldn’t move his head before he started fucking his mouth.

It was all Murdock could do to keep breathing; his vacant eyes were glazing over even more, making him look unutterably serene even as he choked on Clint’s cock. He was just kneeling there, focusing on how to endure the situation rather than how to stop it. Clint was already slightly out of breath, himself—God, he wasn’t going to last long if he didn’t check himself.

But drawing this out wasn’t the point of today’s exercise, anyway. So he thrust into Murdock’s throat the way he liked most, holding him firmly in place and never pulling out more than a few inches. Murdock was accepting the whole thing, riding the high of oxygen deprivation and the deeper, more twisted rush of utter humiliation; he had already fallen deep under by the time Clint ejaculated down his throat.

He swallowed without being told, then stumbled into a hunched position when Clint pulled out, catching his breath in deep, silent gasps.

Clint took the time to tuck himself in, slipping out his belt before zipping up his pants; then he crouched in front of Murdock and took out the surgical gag. Murdock let out a shaky breath when it came off—the corners of his lips looked swollen and painful. His chin was glistening with spit and come; his hair was disheveled and wild with how much Clint had tugged at it.

Clint smiled, then slipped out his belt and used it to strap Murdock’s wrists behind his back. Murdock let him do it. His eyes were a bit too wide and he was still panting, confused and shocked.

But he was in no way done.

 

*

 

Despite what Foggy could think, Matt didn’t have time for sex in his life—and when he did actually have the time, his exhausted and battered body didn’t let him have the stamina. He also hadn’t lied to Barton; he enjoyed the company of men, only not in his bed. He wasn’t even getting hard right now, as a matter of fact—yet his body was thrumming with an energy which felt deeply, intimately sexual. This wasn’t about the act in itself, he knew. This was about being forced to commit the act. He could still feel Barton’s hand clutching at his hair.

When Barton tied his wrists behind his back, it was all Matt could do not to let his breathing hitch. He had trouble focusing, trouble keeping himself together. Had he really been fellating Barton seconds ago? Was Barton even really there—wasn’t Matt just deep into the strangest, darkest masturbatory fantasy of his frustrated life? Everything had the strange, fuzzy quality of a dream; everything sounded like he was underwater, too many signals, too blurred to make sense in his blown-out brain.

He heard Barton reach for his duffle bag and slide it close, then zip it open. The smell of leather hit Matt like a freight train, and with it the memory of panic and degradation.

“No,” he managed, sounding more composed than he felt. “Not that again.”

Barton huffed an amused breath through his noise. Then he slapped Matt _hard._

Matt let his head jerk to the side and stayed there, panting. His mouth tasted of blood. He should have felt the blow coming; he was pretty sure he _had._ But his reflexes were leaving the building. Twisting into something else. Something that sought the pain, wanted it, _craved_ it.

“Do you think this is about comfort, Murdock?” Barton’s voice said in his ear.

Then the hood got tugged over his head again and panic exploded behind Matt’s eyes like a supernova.

He moaned, gasping for air when he found that the zipper over his mouth was open, at least. God, was he—was this really him, on his knees, in his own apartment, with—the hood was locking him into a box of sensation again, making him hyperaware of his skin, of the rustle of his clothes over it. He could almost feel each thread—he could feel—

 _“Up,”_ Barton ordered into his ear before tugging him to his feet. Matt didn’t trust himself to walk, but he only had a few wavering steps to do before Barton threw him on the couch, on his back. Matt twisted to accommodate his bound hands against the pillows, tucking them in the small of his back. It made him arch his spine slightly; his shirt tugged at its buttons, straining over his heaving chest.

Barton pressed on his stomach as if to say _stay here,_ then got up and left.

Matt couldn’t track his movements with the hood confusing all his senses. He could still feel vibrations, though—he was almost certain Barton had walked into the kitchen, but that was all he knew. All he could do now was breathe—take advantage of this short reprieve and try to _breathe._

Barton wasn’t long to return, the vibration of his steps somehow tingling over Matt’s skin. He sat on the couch next to him; then there was a slightly sharper shock as though he’d put something on the coffee table. He briefly pressed two fingers over Matt’s neck to take his pulse, then began opening his shirt.

He had deft fingers and undid the buttons within seconds; he pushed it off Matt’s chest and down his shoulders, almost reaching his elbows. Matt had never seen his adult body but he knew how it looked—he’d touched it enough, dabbing at cuts and bruises. And he was straining right now, arching, muscles bunching under the skin; Barton’s possessive hand on his abs made him freeze again, panting into darkness. God, why was he _reacting_ like this.

Barton fumbled for a minute, doing something Matt had no way to sense. He then moved his hand up Matt’s abs, onto his pectorals, then wrapped it around his throat, without squeezing—just holding him there.

Something touched Matt’s skin and made him _flinch_ violently before he could even process the sensation. It was—Jesus, it was just water, but it was _ice cold_ —the freezer, Barton had gone to the kitchen to get ice from the _freezer—_

More icy water trickled down his chest, dipping into his navel, and Matt squirmed desperately on the couch. It was like a line of fire down his skin. Barton held him down by his throat, then pressed an entire ice cube onto his stomach and Matt jerked and struggled and cried out.

That got him the hood sharply zipped shut, and he let out an involuntary noise. Breathing through his nose felt like choking, but it was all he had and he tried to make himself realize he wasn’t _actually_ choking, he could still get enough—still get enough air—Jesus _Christ_ it was so cold, so cold it burned—Barton was tracing the ice cube in curved patterns over his stomach and chest, still choking him with his other hand. Matt wished he could have felt _less,_ but his whole skin was crackling with nerve endings. His shoulders were beginning to hurt with his arms twisted and crushed under his body; he could only let out muffled, frantic sounds now, trapped in the hood.

Barton presumably laughed—his hand twitching on Matt’s throat—then put away the ice cube and let go of Matt's throat to unbuckle his pants and zip them open.

 _What am I doing,_ Matt managed to think for a moment.

Then Barton pulled down his underwear to tug his cock free, and it was all Matt could do to focus on the present again.

 _“Very nice,”_ Barton said, close to the hood, and Matt felt too hot in the constricting leather. He still wasn’t hard, but Barton pulled back his foreskin to have access to the head—and let the water drip.

The burst of ice on oversensitive skin made Matt cry out again, muffled and desperate against the leather. His legs were trapped in his pants, his arms still tied behind his back and tangled in his shirt; he felt like electricity was coursing through his skin, and all he could do was buck into Barton’s hand, push his head back into the cushions, physically shaking with each jolt of ice. Shivers were rippling over his skin, chasing after each other, and it was too much and he couldn’t breathe—he needed more air and the hood just wouldn’t _let_ him—

Barton relented, and Matt started shuddering so hard his breath shook uncontrollably with each exhale. He stayed very still, straining to sense what was happening now. Barton cupped his jaw, making him tilt his head back against the arm of the couch. When he zipped the hood open, Matt’s first reflex was to gasp for air, thinking he’d earned a reprieve.

Then Barton forced his jaws open, stuffed an entire ice cube in his mouth and zipped the hood back shut.

The cold burrowed into his teeth and Matt wanted to _spit it out_ but couldn’t—for a long minute there was nothing but the freezing agony locking down his thoughts, the unbearable bite of the ice battling with the fact that he could do nothing but wait for the awful pain to pass. Then the ice cube started melting enough for Matt to suck on it, and he swallowed it as soon as he could, catching his breath as the unbearable sharpness of cold receded into cool numbness.

This had been, he realized, a distraction—Barton had gotten off the couch without Matt feeling the dip of the cushions. He wasn’t far, though—Matt could feel faint brushes of air on his bare skin; he was moving close to him, busying himself with something. Taking something else on the coffee table?

A faint smell caught his nose. Matt thought he knew it, but hadn’t smelled it in a long time. Dust and old powder. It grew even fainter for a second, barely perceptible. Suddenly, Barton was back, quite literally sitting on top of him, folding his right leg to let his knee rest across Matt’s hips, with his left foot presumably still on the ground—Matt’s couch wasn’t very wide. The old-fashioned perfume suddenly flared, invading Matt’s nostrils, heady and so strong it almost gave him a headache. He still inhaled as deeply as he could, which wasn’t much given that his breathing was still harsh and shallow. He _knew_ this smell—it was—

 _Incense,_ he realized just before the first burn.

 

*

 

Murdock felt it coming—let out a string of muffled, frantic sounds and bucked his hips under Clint, to no avail. Clint grabbed him by his throat to keep him still before tapping the incense stick just over his nipple. The burning ash broke off the stick and fell on his skin—Murdock squirmed harder then, huffing harsh and fast through his nose.

When Clint pressed the burning end of the stick right into his skin, Murdock didn’t shout right away—only arched even more without a sound, as though the pain had blown up his brain. He was quite literally choking in the hood at this point, struggling and failing to breathe, so Clint tugged the zipper open.

Murdock gasped for breath, panting loudly and quickly, but didn’t say a word. Smart man. Or maybe he was too far gone now.

Clint gave in to his impulse and kissed him, still holding him by his throat, feeling the sharp ridges of the zipper against his own lips. Murdock’s tongue was still cold from the ice cube; he panted into Clint’s mouth, then began letting inarticulate sounds as the incense stick closed in. He could _feel_ the heat of the tiny firebrand before it touched him. Fuck, this was amazing.

More incandescent ash had him bucking harder under Clint’s weight, letting out more helpless sounds into Clint’s mouth; he went back to gasping for breath again when Clint relented. Clint sat back and took it all in for a minute. A lazy plume of smoke was unfurling from the incense stick, going up towards the ceiling like an ethereal scarf.  Murdock’s head was thrown back, his full lips parted, sweat glistening in the hollows of his collarbones, of his abs, of his navel.

Clint bent down and licked it there, enjoying the salt of the clean sweat that comes with pain and fear; he traced the well-defined muscle with the tip of his tongue, and Murdock panted a little harder.

When the stick pressed into his skin once more, Murdock gritted his teeth and actually managed not to make a sound, tensing like hell—muscles bunching and cording and trembling—then relaxing abruptly when the stick went away. For the first time, Clint couldn’t hear him breathe at all; Murdock was just lying there, unmoving and silent. He didn’t even tense again for the next burn. When the stick pressed into his skin, he acted as though he wasn’t even feeling it. He was beginning to get lost in his own head with sensation overload, drifting further and further from the shore.

The Xining Airlines ad was painting the column of his throat and the planes of his chest with slow-moving colors. Clint wanted to lick him again. He wanted to _eat_ him. He hadn’t brought anyone down this deep in a while.

He burned him on his fluttering stomach, and was rewarded with Murdock’s voice pitching higher than before—it was still very low, but it sounded very much like a wavering moan of ecstasy. Clint bent down again and bit him on his hip; he sucked hard enough to raise blood to the skin, tasting it on his tongue, feeling the muscle quivering between his teeth. Murdock was shivering, breathing in quick sharp intakes, probably focused entirely on the incense stick Clint was still holding close to his skin.

When Clint straightened up again, he inhaled the smoke by accident, but let it rasp at the back of his throat. The smell was heady even for him; he couldn’t fathom how it was for Murdock.

He couldn’t stop grinning. This was entirely too _fun._ He trailed the incandescent tip of the stick above Murdock’s chest, realizing with fascination that his skin was actually coming out in goose bumps following the movements of the stick. Clint pressed it into the dip of his abs, over the bite mark; he rolled it there languidly, still smiling. Murdock’s broken-off noises were making him hard again.

Then he grabbed the bowl of ice—the last ice cube having melted in a small pool of icy water—and poured it over Murdock’s abs.

Murdock _almost_ managed to buck Clint off him this time—and _shouted_ unrestrictedly, though he locked his own jaw shut the next second, convulsing in his efforts to stay silent—until his arching body came back down onto the couch, one heaving breath at the time, lower, lower, lower, and then fully resting onto the cushions again.

Clint burned him again, then again; Murdock didn’t react at all. Lips parted, muscles loose, he might as well have been dead.

Smiling, Clint stuck the incense stick into a flower pot, then leaned into the cushions on his side of the couch and waited for him to come back up.

 

*

 

There had been pain and there had been the absence of pain, until Matt couldn’t tell the difference anymore—until the accelerating frames of his torment blurred into a film depicting something else entirely. He’d climbed this far and now he’d reached the sun, blasted away from the inside out by endorphins making up for an agony which was no longer there. He was riding the shockwave into pure light, mesmerized by it, unable to think. He could literally _not think_ —his synapses had snapped and his thoughts were moving untethered, haphazard in the confines of his expanding mind; he could only jump from one broken fragment to another as they came, with long, long slots of utter nothingness in between. Absolute silence, moments where he was no longer himself, was barely even a person at all, reduced to the simplest expression of his consciousness. Every sensation had turned into a Schrödinger version of itself; undead, alive.

He flickered like candlelight in limbo, staring at the glory and forgetting he couldn’t see.

And then he could breathe, he was no longer stuffed in a box, and his body felt like it might disintegrate into this boundless space at any given moment—like the only thing keeping it together was its immobility. It went on for a timeless while, until the threat of infinity receded and Matt became conscious of his own weight again. He turned his head into the cushions and curled up on himself. He was where he was, absolutely indifferent to all things happening outside of himself. There was only the gaping silence in his head and the softness of the cushions. His body was dead weight, and he was inhabiting it whole, aware of his every cell, aware of his own shape. 

He was very cold; then he felt slightly warmer, curled up even more, and drifted off into a place that wasn’t quite sleep but not exactly awareness either.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Matt?”

Matt blinked awake. The first thing he took stock of was himself. He was lying on the couch, fully dressed—though someone had buttoned his shirt back up and taken off his shoes, leaving him in his socks under the comforter from his room.

There was a pounding on the door. _“Matt!_ Are you in there?”

Foggy, thought Matt. He pushed himself up, hissing under his breath when dozens of tiny burns pulled at his skin, like nails driven into his flesh. The building sounded empty—he could hear almost no heartbeats on the other floors, only Foggy’s on the other side of his door. He smelled like he’d run. What was happening?

The comforter slipped off Matt’s shoulders when he got up, and he felt deathly cold. He felt like he wouldn't be able to stand it, and gathered the comforter in his arms, walked to his room and dumped it on the bed before taking a black sweater from his drawer. Only after pulling it on did he realize he should have done this _after_ opening the door. His thought processes felt strange—still disjointed, only starting now to fall back into their regular patterns again.

He walked to the door and opened it. He didn’t have his glasses, but it was okay. It was Foggy.

“Jesus, _finally,”_ Foggy exclaimed when Matt opened the door. “Matty, what happened?”

Matt didn’t know what to say for a second. “What do you mean?” he finally asked.

Jesus. Did he have marks? Could Foggy see— _what_ could he see?

“Matt, it’s _2pm,”_ Foggy said in confusion.

Matt had another blank moment.

“Oh,” he said. “I’m,” he turned round. He hadn’t felt the sun coming in from the window; it must be a cloudy day. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

Along with a sting of shame, he felt a rush of aching fondness for Foggy, who’d literally run to his apartment when he’d failed to show up at work or answer his phone. They didn’t touch often; Matt had felt the shape of Foggy's face once, and Foggy still put his hand on his arm sometimes to guide him in new places, but that was all. Right now, though, Matt wanted to hold him and not let go for a long, long time. 

He could feel his hands shake and gripped the handle more tightly.

“I’m really sorry,” he repeated.

“It’s okay,” Foggy said, sounding puzzled but mostly relieved. Then he just sounded like Foggy: “I’m _telling_ you, Matt, you don’t sleep enough.”

“Spare me,” Matt said, dredging up a smile to offer him. “Come in. I’ll be right here, just let me get changed.”

“There’s no rush,” Foggy said, “Karen is holding the fort.”

“No calls?” Matt asked, disappearing in his bedroom and tugging off his clothes over his head. The burns pulled at his skin and his throat felt sore; but under the skin, his body was loose and pliant, settled into motionlessness. There was a quiet thrum wired deep into him, like a Buddhist aum. 

“Actually, yes—this one guy said he wanted to talk to you specifically.” Foggy said, raising his voice to be heard from the living room. “A Mr. Bakshi?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell. I’ll call him back when we get there.”

“Yeah, well, you’re buying me lunch first. I didn’t come all the way here for nothing.”

Matt smiled a little. He was a bit warmer, and when he took a deep breath, he felt a little less like he was going to expand into nothingness.

“It’s the least I can do,” he said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Matt.
> 
> Fun fact: cell popping (or micro-branding) is also called Devil's Fire. The more you know. :D Leave a comment if you're so inclined, and thank you for reading! Next chapter soon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for the delay, guys. The chapter was just getting too long, so here's the first part. Aftermath in the next update. ^^
> 
> Spoilers for Daredevil S01E06. Don't forget to check the tags.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Matt tried not to think about it, because there was clearly nothing to think about. If he had been someone else, anyone else, he could have put an end to this. He could have sat down and faced what he was doing—what he was allowing to happen. He could have asked for advice. Any advice. Maybe even help.

But there was a finality to the mask he pulled over his eyes. This was his decision, the choice that trumped everything else, and he must now deal with the consequences. Barton was one of them. One of the many grinning shadows Matt would pick up along the way. He had seen something in Matt, and he must have seen true, because he’d come back so easily you’d think Matt had carved out a place for him himself.

And in a sense, he had. This must be what damning yourself felt like.

It had been a long night, and Matt felt like filth was sticking to his skin, tainting it, making it gritty and rough. He was covered in blood-caked dirt, and dust and cobwebs he’d gathered falling through three layers of ceiling. There was sewer mud weighing down his boots. His pain was so deep and solid it felt like he was carrying it on his back, letting it seep into his entire body like the weight of a dead friend hitching a morbid piggyback ride.

Vladimir was dead. Matt hadn’t left fast enough, or maybe his ears were too good, because he’d heard the broken Russian lullaby coming out of chapped lips, and he’d heard the hellfire of bullets, and the loud, wet noise of a body hitting the floor, splashing in the brown water. And then the faint whimper, almost a sob, almost his brother’s name. And then the silence.

Dead, Vladimir, the whole Kitchen on fire, calling Matt its devil. Vladimir’s voice in his ears, and Fisk’s voice, too, a voice so soft and yet so deeply brutal—Matt could hear the numb promise of death in the distance it kept. Both of them, whispering he was like them, whispering he’d come to it, he already had blood on his hands. _I’m doing this because I enjoy it._ Claire didn’t want to believe it, but it pulsed in Matt’s stomach like a nausea. He was walking home, refusing to drag himself down the streets, walking in spite of the aches still pounding into his body. _I’m doing this because I enjoy it._

He retrieved his phone in the dumpster and absently listened to his messages. Eight of them from Karen, only two from Foggy who tried to hide his fear. Matt dropped a few comforting words in his their voicemails, then turned off his phone. His ears were buzzing, his skin was sticky and hot as though he could feel the blazing heat of the fires from here.

He pushed open the front door of his building and stopped, out of breath. He parted his lips and tasted the air.

The hot, choking weight of Barton’s cock suddenly filled his memory, so vivid he almost gasped. Matt clamped a hand over his mouth and nose, like he used to do when the world was too overwhelming as a child. It wasn’t enough to keep Barton’s smell away. He was in his apartment. He was waiting for Matt to come home.

Matt forced himself to draw another breath. Barton’s smell rolled in his mouth and filled his nose again. Oh, he’d made sure Matt knew it thoroughly. He could never get it mixed with anyone else’s, now. With a little more training, Matt could probably learn to tell exactly what Barton had eaten, if he’d had sex long ago, if he was sick or healthy.

Matt’s torso was still covered in tiny burns which pulled at his skin when he breathed. He doubted they’d go away anytime soon.

There was still time to go to Claire.

He stayed on the threshold, breathing, tasting, wavering a little. He was so tired.

There was a low anger rolling in his stomach like loose barrels in a ship’s hold during a storm, there was pain settling in his flesh like a parasite. Vladimir’s and Fisk’s words in his ears. _We’re not so different. You and I._

Matt realized he was going up the stairs. One silent step at the time.

He kept his lips parted as he went. The taste became richer the closer he got, as if Barton had been jerking off all that time, waiting for him, filling the place with his smell and with the anticipation of what he was going to do. Matt was intoxicated. He couldn’t think. He was going quicker now, hurrying up.

When Matt opened the door, Barton’s heart rate only barely quickened. No surprise, no shock, no guilt. He was perfectly at ease.

He put away the book he was reading—rustle of pages, faint wet noise of his lips parting for a smile—and got up to his feet.

“Hey,” he said. “Looks like you—”

Matt marched up to him, grabbed him at the throat and kissed him.

The rough scrape of stubble against his lips was like sandpaper, prickling at his nerves. He clutched at him, kissed him deeper, unable to taste anything other than his own desperation now, skin crackling with heat, festering with filth—he wanted to peel it off, he wanted to be turned inside out, and suddenly Barton was grinning against his mouth and kissing _back,_ and Matt thought—and Matt thought, _please._

*

 

The thing was, Clint knew he was playing with fire.

This was dangerous enough already when Murdock wasn’t drawing too much attention to himself; but now, the Kitchen was burning, and the man in a mask was making the news. _Terrorist,_ they said. Waiting in the dark, having turned off the TV, Clint idly wondered if it was true. He wasn’t here to find out; but if Murdock got caught and they realized he wasn’t exactly normal, SHIELD would take over. And Clint would probably get to meet him in a professional setting again.

This wouldn’t be too problematic; he could always pretend he hadn’t noticed Murdock’s abilities the first time around—though Coulson wouldn’t buy that. He knew Clint too well. Still, what bothered Clint the most was the other alternative. If Murdock _didn’t_ get caught.

If people—people such as Steve, or Tony, or Bruce—came to hear about Clint’s night job, he could always tell them the truth: that Coulson had commissioned him to do what he did. But Murdock wasn’t a job. Not anymore. Clint was sticking his neck out pursuing this with him. But in this moment, he knew there was no way Murdock would ever get the upper hand here. This was a fight he desperately wanted to lose. Clint’s work was also about creating an addiction, and with Murdock he’d succeeded so spectacularly it could only mean the craving had already been there before.

Right now, Murdock couldn’t stop kissing him, surging, clutching at Clint with some kind of desperate urgency. This was him begging. Not that he was actually begging out loud—they’d have to work up to that one—but he was almost vibrating with despair, dense muscle pressed against Clint’s body like a coiled spring, his hands turning into fists in Clint’s jacket.

Clint could smell blood in the air and taste it in Murdock’s mouth. His knuckles, when Clint ran a thumb over them, were scrapped. His ribs, when Clint pressed his hand over them, were bruised. Maybe cracked. He needed stitches in—Clint’s finger tip-toed over ripped cloth—one, two, three different places.

Clint’s brain kicked into gear as he surged back, pinning Murdock against the wall and drawing a pained groan out of him when it jolted his ribs. Clint’s cock jolted in answer, stirring at the first hints of pain from his partner. What a fucking delight, he thought, still smiling into the bruising kiss. Murdock was completely out of it, jacked up on exhaustion and agony, but that didn’t explain it all. There was true despair in the way he clung to Clint. Something had gone wrong.

The fiery hell raging through the Kitchen might have something to do with it.

“So, bad night,” Clint breathed. “Don’t tell me this shitstorm out here’s your fault.”

Murdock didn’t react. His eyes were staring above Clint’s head, at the ceiling, at the sky. Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence this time.

“You fuckin’ Catholic boys,” Clint said. “All of you, goddamn martyrs craving penitence. You think pain is the answer to everything. But it’s not.” Murdock’s shirt was riding up his abs; he had a deep cut there, above the hip, and Clint pushed his fingers into it and _dug._ “It’s the question.”

Murdock’s shout was too unrestrained. This guy would be used to keeping it in, but right now—right now he couldn’t get enough. He must know Clint liked it when he was vocal, and—maybe unconsciously—he was trying to get Clint to hurt him _more_ already. He really _was_ like Steve in this regard, both of them sacrificing morons, worshipping pain even though they wouldn’t admit it to themselves. They thought pain was noble, or cleansing, or some other bullshit.

Pain was just a mean. It wasn’t an end.

Clint briefly daydreamed about having Steve in this position, getting him to break bit by bit, but this was just a fantasy. Murdock was here, and real.

“So what happened?” Clint asked. “Did you hurt people? Did you kill people?” He was working his fingers into Murdock’s wound, drawing out moans or frantic whines through clenched teeth, slowly cataloguing his reactions. “Did you _enjoy_ it?”

“I don’t,” Murdock panted, _“kill.”_

Clint smiled. It was all clicking into place.

“But I do,” he said. “I don’t mind—it’s what I do. And you _know_ that. S’exactly why you’re here.”

He drove his fingers right into the flesh, ripping a single cry out of Murdock’s mouth, louder than anything he’d let out before. “You want me to prove you that you’re not the worst devil in Hell’s Kitchen.”

His lips were against Murdock’s ear. “I can do that.”

 

*

 

Matt couldn’t breathe. Like the hood was on already. His nostrils were fluttering, drawing in sharp intakes of breath. Barton had brought stuff. _Lots_ of stuff. Matt could smell metal and leather and plastic through the canvas of his duffle bag abandoned on the floor by the couch.

Barton’s fingers finally pulled out of his wound, sticky blood trailing after them. He tugged at Matt’s shirt. “I don’t think you get to wear clothes around me anymore.”

Matt took a breath, then tugged his shirt over his head, dropped his hands to open his pants. Barton’s hands came down with his, slipped past the loosening belt and grabbed him in a tight grip, teasing the head of his cock. Matt gasped and hissed. His body was responding already, crazy with adrenaline and endorphins and the need to discharge a little of the desperate energy misfiring up his nerves. Barton took him in a firmer hand and began to jack him off.

Matt bit his lip. _No,_ he thought desperately. But he was getting harder. For once, he actually wished he was too exhausted to get it up. His arousal would just be another way for Barton to torment him. Then again—Matt was already lost.

When he was fully erect—it only took him a minute—Barton let him go and stepped back. Matt got a flash of how he must look, standing there for Barton to see, jutting out of his pants. He swallowed against a hot rush of humiliation. This shouldn’t have been a vulnerable point, but Barton had a knack to make Matt feel like he wasn’t blind, only blindfolded.

“Knees,” Barton said over his shoulder. He was rummaging in his bag.

Matt slowly sunk to his knees. _What am I doing._ He was aching and his head was pounding and he was unable to think. His cock was still hard, only beginning to flag a little now that Barton had let him go. The fact that Barton had gotten him to respond even though Matt didn’t swing this way only added to the humiliation, and his humiliation pulled his arousal to the surface like water from a well.

The strong smell of hemp suddenly filled his nostrils, just before a coil of rope was dropped to the ground next to him; something else was taken out of the bag, something heavy and metal, put on the ground as well. Barton bound Matt’s wrists first—the rope was so coarse on his skin it felt like it might flay his wrists—then climbed on a chair and did something involving the ceiling, tinkering with something metal. Next thing he knew, Matt was being forcefully pulled up, until he had to get to his feet, then on his tip-toes, arms extended. He gasped in surprise, instinctively pulling himself up, moving his feet, seeking purchase.

“Gotta love exposed beams,” Barton said from above.

“This place doesn’t have any,” Matt panted, head bowed towards the floor.

Barton laughed. “Just wanted to check if you knew.”

Matt tugged at the rope. “How—”

“I rigged up a ceiling suspension hook while you were gone. I had time to test it, so don’t worry—it’s secure.” Barton jumped on the floor, then kicked the chair out of the way.

Matt stayed there, stretched out, out of breath. His shoulders were already beginning to ache; he could feel his chest heave. Barton finished pulling down Matt’s pants and threw them away, leaving him fully naked, still at half-mast. He pushed something round and rubber into Matt’s mouth; it was big enough to make his jaw ache. Matt let out a choking sound, biting down on it. At least it wasn’t the hood, he thought as the strap was secured behind his head. Still, he could only breathe through his nose now, and he was already beginning to drool.

Then Barton grabbed his cock again, out of nowhere, and Matt’s whole body jolted. Barton stroked him back to full hardness, then pulled on Matt’s balls, massaging and kneading and tugging as if to separate them from his body. He wasn’t being cruel, but there was no gentleness in his touch either; he handled Matt with the casual roughness of a horse trainer. Matt didn’t get what he was doing, and couldn’t help twitching every time Barton squeezed harder.

Then Barton picked up the heavy cold metal thing from the floor and tightened it around Matt’s balls. A ring, with an attachment which clamped around the base of Matt’s cock, squeezing so tight he couldn’t possibly come, squeezing so tight he knew he wasn’t getting soft again until this thing was taken off—squeezing so tight he whimpered around the ball-gag when it started feeling like Barton was trying to cut his dick off.

“Hey, shh,” Barton said, amused. He padlocked the ring into place, then kissed Matt’s cheek. “You’re fine.”

Matt was far from fine. His body was a giant throbbing ache, his shoulders more and more vividly so, and his arousal was trying to desert him—but the ring forced him to stay hard; it was a more perverted pain, a choking ache, bursting and swelling more and more. He was fully naked, fully exposed, absolutely helpless, and the awareness of his own vulnerability hit him like an uppercut. He was slipping into that odd mental place again—whether he wanted this or not wasn’t a consideration anymore; he was losing the ability to think. All he could do was feel and prepare himself to endure; all he could do was react to what was being done to him.

And he was worried. Barton’s insistence on keeping him hard worried him. This wasn’t what—the last time, Barton had taken what he wanted, but _he’d_ been the one getting hard. Now—now, Matt had been coerced into that state and locked into it, on display. He’d expected pain. He’d thought—he didn’t know what he’d thought, but—

He was breathing faster and faster. Barton drew the chair in front of Matt and sat on it, presumably astride the back. And then he just stayed there and watched him.

There was a silence.

Barton stayed there for a long time, tapping a light rhythm on the back of the chair. Matt couldn’t do anything but stay there too, slowly cataloguing the aches plaguing his body like a picture coming into focus. His balls pulsed low with pain, and he couldn’t relieve his shoulders without pulling on the rope and flexing—giving even more of himself for Barton to watch, muscles bunching under the skin. Panic was grating at the back of his head, but at some times he felt like he was too calm, abnormally so, like he’d been hypnotized in some way.

“I know it’s not what you wanted,” Barton said conversationally, sounding almost a bit sympathetic. “But I’m going to fuck you.”

Matt froze.

“I’m going to make you real sore first, so I know you’ll really _feel_ it, and then I’m going to fuck you.”

Matt’s breathing quickened; maybe he made a sound around the ball-gag, he didn’t know.

“The thing is, you’re in it for the punishment,” Barton said. “Not just for the pain. Anyone could give you pain. This is about what you _don’t_ want. Dunno if you’ve figured that out yet, yourself.”

He got up. “You’re a complicated one.” He sounded like he was smiling. “But those are the most interesting to work with.”

Matt couldn’t help flinching when Barton came closer. His thoughts were turning into static. He should have kicked with unbound legs and tried to grab Barton in a headlock. He wasn’t. He wouldn’t.

He’d chosen to go up the stairs, after all.

For a second, he felt like Barton knew him better than he knew himself; and this thought—this thought was the scariest thing about all this.

 

*

 

Murdock was reacting interestingly to Clint’s words. He’d frozen up at first, which wasn’t a surprise. Straight men weren’t generally used to the idea of penetration as a form of torture. Hell, even the gay ones didn’t always expect Clint to take that option. The few women he’d worked on hadn’t expected anything else, though, which was kinda depressing to think about.

After the first moment of shock, Murdock just looked like he couldn’t quite make sense of what was happening, like he was waiting for something more before he decided on how to react. Clint crouched to the ground and tugged his duffle bag wider open. Hollywood really had done a terrible job of romanticizing torture, he thought idly as he pushed the coils of rope aside—shit, he really had too many of those. In the movies, torture had become this manly thing from which the hero always walked off mentally unharmed. Han Solo, James Bond, all the action heroes. Clint took out another few coils of rope; what he was looking for had slipped at the bottom. He really oughta organize this stuff. Maybe James Bond wasn’t so bad, actually—the Daniel Craig run, anyway. The ball-busting scene in _Casino Royale_ had been a bit too cheesy, with all the stoic one-liners, but the chosen method of torture was uncomfortably intimate; Clint had been pleasantly surprised.

A shuffling noise made him look up. Murdock was shifting on his toes, trying to relieve his shoulders, unconsciously rolling his hips a little, seeking friction. Clint smiled, then pulled out all the ropes from his bag so he’d see more clearly in there.

Of course, _Casino Royale_ didn’t compare to the rape threat in _Skyfall_ (“Well. First time for everything”) to which Bond reacted with a smile. (“What makes you think it would be my first time?”) Damn, Clint would have _loved_ to work on a subject like that. See how long that little smile held. But Hollywood—ah, _there_ was the folded cloth he was looking for, stuck under the fucking seam, of fucking course—Hollywood left out the humiliation. And the degradation. The shame. The despair. Everything that really made it count, in the end. Torture was a _mental_ exercise. Clint had been in this line of work long enough. He knew it was about getting under the subject’s skin, and not just in the literal way.

Movies were nice, but even the most violent of them were for children.

Clint straightened up and unfolded the cloth on Murdock’s coffee table; the silver implements glinted in the dim light. He checked them one by one, then looked up. Murdock was pulling at the ropes again, abs rippling, biceps bulging, trying to relieve his own weight. His full lips were stretched around the black ball-gag; his eyes were already glazing over, the shock already beginning to sublimate into a trance of his own. Oh, he wasn’t smiling, but that didn’t mean he’d be easy to break. He could take such an unbelievable amount of punishment.

Clint would have to be careful. To be subtle, to be shrewd, to be precise. To be _sharp._

 

*

 

Matt’s shoulders hurt, so much he could almost forget the nastier pain of his trapped cock pulsing in the heavy-duty ring, even though the weight of it pulled at his groin, made him felt like it was going to fall off.

He heard Barton get up at long last and walk to him.

“You with me?” he said, slapping Matt’s cheek a little.

Matt tried to swallow, without really managing around the huge rubber ball forcing his jaws open. Barton put a hand on his chest. “Okay. Don’t go anywhere.”

The feeling was so sharp Matt didn’t understand what was happening at first. It curved along his ribs, not too deep, like Barton was just underlining the bone with a pen. He sprayed it with disinfectant, then moved on to the next one, just below. Blood trickled down and splattered the floor with a quiet, quick noise. Only then did Matt realize Barton was cutting him.

He didn’t scream. He wouldn’t. He knew cuts—he knew stabs. He knew how to accept the pain, to integrate it and keep thinking and moving. He could get over this. He could keep it together.

Too late, he realized it was exactly Barton’s intention. This was his fucking way of settling Matt—and it was _working._

There was another cut, then another, and another, until six parallels wounds opened in Matt’s right side, like a ladder of blood over his ribs. Barton sprayed them with disinfectant one last time, then raked his nails in a perpendicular line over them—nails catching on every cut, making Matt twitch and tense down to his curling toes, letting out muffled sounds around the gag, only barely holding in what would’ve been broken yells.

“Alright,” Barton said. “Better.”

Matt realized he was shaking. When he wasn’t fighting back, his adrenaline levels didn’t rise up as high. His lacerated side was killing him. Pain after all. He hadn’t really wished for it, but he still dreaded what came next. He bit into the ball-gag, trying to dig up strength from somewhere inside him. The truth was that he was waiting for more agony, enough to explode his thoughts into fiery serenity, like the last two times. But this wasn’t what he was getting tonight.

Barton grabbed his cock again without warning, and Matt jumped in his bonds—he hadn’t realized how _oversensitive_ he’d become. He could feel Barton’s damn _fingerprints._ His fingers shifted ever so slightly when he reached out for something with his other hand, and Matt could _feel_ the microscopic bumps catch on his cock, scrape it, and he felt like he was going crazy. It took all he had not to thrust up into Barton’s hand. He couldn’t come anyway; he was padlocked. He had to keep it together, but—this was just the beginning, and already he—

—he realized he’d started panting too fast and too harshly when Barton raked his nails down the cuts on his side again, making his brain short out for a second.

“Next time,” he said casually, “I’m pouring vodka on those. Keep it together, Murdock.”

Matt closed his eyes. It made no difference whatsoever with anything, but—he still closed them. Barton’s hand shifted around his cock, thumbing at the head and Matt moaned shakily, raggedly, unable to stop himself. He screwed his eyes shut the next second, full of shame. _Christ,_ he was better than this.

“You’re really somethin’,” Barton said, amused.

There was a clink of metal.

“Okay, this is gonna feel strange. Take a deep breath.”

 

*

 

Clint had carefully disinfected his implements of choice—the last thing he wanted to do was give Murdock an infection. Infections only meant he’d done a sloppy job whose consequences he hadn’t controlled.

He smiled at himself a little. Hell, he couldn’t stop seeing this as a job. Well—more like an intellectual exercise. Nothing else made him so intensely focused. It was like shooting his bow. Pick a target, calculate all the variables, breathe, nock, draw, release. Only infinitely more complex and fascinating, like a dialogue, like a dance, like taking a machine apart to see how it worked. The sexual perks were just a bonus.

He squeezed Murdock’s cock to get the urethra open, then picked the 3mm sound, dipped it in lube, angled it right and slid it into Murdock’s erect cock.

Murdock’s toes curled again, his abs fluttered and tensed, and he screwed his eyes shut, reopened them, screwed them back shut again, like he couldn’t handle what was happening, breathing hard and fast through his nose. Once again, Clint wondered just _how_ enhanced his senses were. Shit, the guy had silk sheets, a jarring luxury in his otherwise Spartan apartment. If _fabrics_ were enough to eat at him, overstimulation was going to drive him to actual madness.

Clint kinda counted on it.

He pushed the thin metal rod all the way home, then rolled it inside Murdock’s cock, pulling it out then pushing it back in to fuck him from the inside out. Murdock was already losing it, letting out muffled, frantic sounds around the gag, drooling and jerking violently at the slightest touch. When Clint pushed the sound as far as it would go, the _noise_ Murdock made almost made Clint come in his pants.

He slipped the sound out, then picked the 7mm. It was already significantly thicker, and he had to go more slowly, working up to full insertion, pushing it in little by little.

Murdock apparently hadn’t expected several sizes. When he understood what was happening, when he felt the difference—he took a deep, hissing breath and opened his eyes again. This was really interesting, Clint thought as he smoothly but firmly pushed the sound all the way in—why open and close his eyes? Maybe it was an old reflex; maybe he wasn’t born blind.

Clint decided to take a break with the sounding to give Murdock time to get used to the stretch. It was his first time, after all; he’d need a minute for the experience to fully sink in. Humiliation was in the subject’s mind, and nowhere else; keeping them in shock was counterproductive.

Clint left the 7mm in and buckled the attached slim metal ring under Murdock’s cockhead so the sound wouldn’t slip out. The whole apparatus—sound and ring, cock ring and balls ring—looked great on him. Maybe heightened senses meant it’d be easier to train him to come on command. He’d already started to let Clint in, making him responsible for the handling of his body and the judging of his actions. He really was following a pattern of confession, flagellation and absolution; only too dark and too shameful to hope to be absolved by God. In hell, the demons are in charge.

Clint grabbed a flexible latex paddle and clasped Murdock’s tortured shoulder, giving it an affectionate squeeze as he walked behind him.

“Warm up time,” he said. “Keep your legs spread.”

 

*

 

Matt’s thoughts were still short-circuiting with the feel of the sound in his cock—it had been locked there, too, staying inside, heavy and cold and metal. It was plugging him shut—this was what his brain kept stumbling on. It was stretching him and _plugging him shut._ Like he was a—God, he didn’t even know. He was trying to get used to the sensation, trying to accept it and center himself, but it was the single most invasive experience of his life and he didn’t quite manage to remain calm.

Then the first blow cracked on his ass, and Matt almost sobbed with relief, doing the mental equivalent of throwing himself into the pain’s arms, focusing on the stinging sensation spreading in shockwaves from the impact point. Barton struck again, harder, then got into a rhythm, five blows on the left ass cheek, five blows on the right, alternatively coming up—hitting the underside of his ass, where it met the thigh—or down—hitting the meat of it. He did it quick like it was a formality, strong, regular blows, without stopping to enjoy Matt’s reactions. _Warming up._

The announced length of their session was what scared Matt most. He almost wanted Barton to fuck him and be done with it. He was exhausted.

Barton landed the final blow, then groped Matt’s warm ass, digging his fingers into what must be pink, maybe red skin—already fairly heating up from the stinging slaps of the latex. The pain hadn’t been major; the feeling of the urethral sound was already back in the front seat of Matt’s thoughts. It was driving him crazy. It was just—it was just _there,_ where it shouldn’t have been, and all he could think was that he wanted it _out,_ please, _please, get it out._

Barton let go of his ass, then walked around him again. He undid the slim metal ring and pulled the smooth, thin rod out. Matt couldn’t help groaning around the gag, shuddering deeply with the slick rub of the sound inside him. God, it was out. He wanted the cock ring off, too. That pain in his balls and at the base of his dick was killing him, competing for the title of agony with the cuts etched into his side, still bleeding. After the night he’d had—he wanted to give up. He wanted to be untied, to curl up, to hide, to rest.

“Getting there,” Barton said. “One step at a time.”

Then he pushed an even _thicker_ rod into Matt’s cock. This time—this time Matt screamed, shook his bonds and shook his head, overwhelmed by the sudden urge to _get it out get it out get it out out out,_ but Barton pushed it _in,_ forced it in, made him take it, and Matt felt like it was stretching him—it _was_ stretching him—like his body would never be the same after that.

Barton huffed a laugh and came closer, pressing up against Matt’s body. He was still holding Matt’s cock, with his thumb pressed against the tip of the sound to keep it inside; his free hand came to cup his cheek, rubbing at the line of his jaw.

“Take it easy,” he said. “Breathe. This isn’t the last one.”

Matt let out a ragged whine, to which Barton answered softly, “I know,” and kissed his cheek. His hand tightened around Matt’s cock, forced it to curve up with the sound still inside—and Matt fought again, losing his mind again, begging around the gag. It was—Christ it was so _thick._ It hurt, it stung. He was going to tear.

Then Barton pulled it out, and Matt almost started sobbing right there and then, because he knew what was coming.

This time, he was convinced he could not take it. It would just not go in. But it was slick and smooth, heavy and thick and cold, but _smooth,_ and it forced his way in, stretched him unnaturally, and went _deep_ inside him—deep enough to bump against something which made white-hot stars _burst_ in Matt’s brain, a pleasure so violent and so raw he thought he was retrieving his sight for one crazy minute.

“Right here?” Barton asked, and prodded at the bundle of nerves again, _from the inside,_ and Matt—it was killing him—it was—killing him—he couldn’t—he couldn’t _possibly,_ please, please, please, he _couldn’t._

Matt did sob when Barton secured the sound into place—just one harsh, halting breath as the thin ring of metal tightened under his flange. Barton gave his cock a pointed stroke, sending a shiver through Matt’s entire body; then he picked something else and walked behind Matt again.

This one was a wooden paddle, with holes in it—as a result, it went faster and stung a lot more. Something to get Matt’s attention again. He was so obsessed with the sound prodding at him from the inside every time he moved that he almost thought the paddling wouldn’t matter. But it was punishing enough that the pain made him jerk in reflex movements, and it jarred the thin rod of metal inside him, and Matt wanted to break into sobs again but this was just the beginning. His thoughts, after a rollercoaster of fuzzy panic and intense focus, were settling into drunken molasses. He could not think. He was drooling a lot around the gag, but he didn’t have the energy to be disgusted at himself. His shoulders hurt so much the pain had evolved beyond his comprehension, the articulations finally turning numb, leaving him defenseless against the pointed agony Barton was giving him.

Barton only hit the underside of his ass this time, with sharp, precise strikes, until Matt felt like his skin was catching fire. He hit and hit and hit, and Matt found himself dreading each new blow with all his soul, almost wishing for the other part of the torture to start again, even though the weight of the sound in his dick was making his skin crawl. This was Barton’s strategy, he realized—to jump from one unbearable thing to another so they’d both last longer, making pain compete against pain, instead of alternating pain and relief.

Barton was good, Matt thought vaguely in a last, spare moment of lucidity.

He dreaded to find out exactly how good he could get.

 

*

 

Clint put down the wooden paddle. This time, he’d done a bit more damage, and Murdock’s ass was visibly bruising, red and hot. Clint gave it a squeeze, then went back to his set of sounds.

Murdock was panting harsh and fast; he moaned again when Clint took the 13mm out of his cock. His slit was wet with lube, with the hole pink and open. The 15mm was next; Clint wasn’t sure they could work up all the way to the 18mm tonight. Then again, they were almost there. It would be a shame to stop now.

Murdock was exhausted. He didn’t try to physically fight the insertion of the 15mm, but he did nothing either to hold back the tears rolling down his cheeks. Just a few of them, even though he’d been close to sobbing once or twice. The whole thing was coming along nicely.

Thicker sounds were also longer—which wasn’t always the case, but Clint had picked his set carefully. His aim was still perfect, and he knew to prod at the exact place, deep inside, in what might be the most intimate place he could reach, the place which would make Murdock _jump—_ like this, he concluded with a grin. He did it again, jabbing more sharply. Murdock was beginning to lose himself for good, the rush coming from pleasure with a healthy dose of humiliation and shock this time. Bit different from pain—but then again, he was also getting pain. Clint glanced at the ladder of cuts along his ribs, and idly thought of making good on his promise to soak them with vodka. But he couldn’t keep Murdock in the moment forever, not with what he was doing to him. He decided to let him float for now; he could always call him back if he was too far by the time Clint got to work on his ass.

He buckled the 15mm into place; better to give him more time to adjust to the stretch, since they were getting to the real intimidating sizes. He’d brought his favorite cane, a thin, flexible metal thing which looked like nothing compared to the rattan cane, but was actually so, so much worse. Murdock’s ass was already worked upon, of course; the wooden paddle had done its job, spanking him bright red, bruised and vulnerable. The edge of the paddle had raised blood in some places. Clint targeted those first, taking pleasure in laying down the cane along the exact same line.

Murdock didn’t scream, but he tried to; the sound got blocked in his throat and he ended up convulsing like he was choking on it. Clint hit him again. He wanted him not to be able to sit for the whole week at least. The aluminum cane really meant business; bruises were already blooming, and the skin broke in several places. Clint applied the cane to the underside of Murdock’s ass, then tapped it on the inside of his thighs so he’d spread his legs, flicking at the tender skin until Murdock had opened his legs wide enough for his ass to part, leaving him fully, completely exposed. He was already bruising purple and red, with bloodied welts here and there; he was panting hard, and more tears were running down his cheeks. He still jerked his hips from time to time. Right, the sound. It could wait a bit longer.

The first blow Clint landed on Murdock’s hole barely registered. The second one made him yell and close his legs.

Clint pinched the worst welt on his ass. “We don’t do that, Murdock. This is getting you a frontside ten.”

He walked in front of Murdock again and landed a stinging blow on his nipple—a very light, very cruel thing, just on the very edge of it. Murdock arched; his cock jumped and twitched desperately.

Clint landed the second blow on his other nipple, just as light, catching only the hardened nub. Murdock couldn’t breathe; he was drooling more and more around the ball-gag and squirming with desperate little noises. Clint landed a firmer blow which caught both nipples at once, then did it again, and again. Murdock was twisting at the end of the rope, struggling to stay into place. His pupils were even more dilated than usual.

The five other blows were for his cock, and he didn’t exactly handle it well—with the sound still inside, each stinging welt jarred the rod poking at the other side of his prostate. He actually started sobbing then, an ugly, erratic thing. He was getting to animal levels of reaction.

The very last hit caught the head of his cock, and Murdock looked like he’d reached overload—like he _had_ to faint or come or _something_ —but nothing happened to save him from the full brunt of it. He convulsed for a second then fell hanging in his ropes, catching his breath, tears streaming down his face.

Clint gave him a second. It was only polite.

Then he tapped the cane under Murdock’s chin.

“Getting with the program?” he said. “Spread again.”

Murdock whimpered, but straightened up and stretched his legs, pushing his feet apart and opening his bruised, welted ass up.

Clint walked behind him again and went back to work. He _loved_ hole punishment. You really got to see your work in progress, as it turned red and swollen and throbbing. Murdock was still sobbing with every other breath, legs twitching and kicking with each blow Clint landed on his hole, but he wasn’t closing them. Clint was glad he hadn’t brought a spreader bar; Murdock was the type of subject who needed to take an active part in his own punishment. Making him stay in place would be better, in the long run, than forcing him down.

Eventually, he was ready. The bruises on the meat of his ass were taking lovely colors, and his abused hole was throbbing and welted red. He was going to be very, very tight now. Not that it was a problem.

Clint walked around Murdock again to go put his cane away, and smiled when he saw parallel welts had appeared on his cock where he’d caned him. The sound was still in there. He was stretched, now, he could take the last one.

So Clint unbuckled the safety ring and pulled it off, then picked up the 18mm. It was really heavy-duty, only barely thinner than Clint’s finger, but Murdock was open. Clint made him take it slowly, almost languidly, rubbing up and up from the inside out until it was pushing against that deep down spot again and Murdock was losing his breath and openly begging behind the gag. The sound was so heavy it pulled his erection down, tugging uncomfortably at the cock ring. He looked great like this.

Clint unbuckled the ball-gag. It came off along with a long string of saliva, but Murdock was past caring.

He licked his lips, then said, “Please,” in his low voice, still sounding quiet even in delirious pain.

Clint made him tilt his chin up and kissed him, tasting the salt of his tears and the small shivers coursing through him. “We’re almost done,” he said.

Murdock kept his lips parted when Clint pulled away. He was unmoving, save for his irrepressible shudders now and then. His legs were still spread, his ass abused and sore, his cock owned to the last limit. He was ready.

Clint brought the chair just in front of him then sat down. He sighed in silent relief when he opened his own pants and freed himself from his underwear; he didn’t really need to stroke himself to get hard enough, but he was careful in coating himself in lube. Murdock wasn’t getting any—that would have kinda defeated the purpose of torturing his hole first—but Clint wasn’t trying to make the experience painful for himself.

Eventually, he decided they were as ready as they would ever get. He got up just enough to untie the rope holding Murdock up, but didn’t slip it out of the hook; he sat back, holding it firmly in his hand, lifting Murdock even further off the ground.

Murdock gasped and tried to scream when his presumably numb shoulders reminded him they still hurt. A bit more and they’d dislocate—but he was getting relief soon. Clint thrust his hips to bring the chair closer, so close he could have kissed Murdock’s stomach. He grabbed his thigh and squeezed, appreciating the feeling of the hard muscle under his fingers. Then he pulled even more on the rope, tugged at Murdock’s leg to bring his hovering body above Clint; he took the time to angle them both just right, until the head of his cock was nudging at Murdock’s abused hole. He gave a few inches to the ropes, lowering Murdock just enough for Clint’s cock to pop in.

Murdock was hyperventilating. Too bad for him.

Clint started unwinding the rope, inch after inch. Gravity was a wonderful thing. Murdock _was_ tight, so very tight it almost knocked the air out of Clint’s lungs, but that didn’t matter.

Murdock cried out, just once. And then he fell silent, shuddering and trembling and arching as he impaled himself more and more on Clint’s cock. Fuck, how it must _hurt._ He couldn’t help twitching violently every time Clint clutched at his ass, poor guy.

When he was fully seated, Clint grinned and let the rope unwind for good. Murdock’s bound hands fell against Clint’s chest. He was trying to breathe through the feeling of being fucked. It was very obvious he hated it—Clint had made sure he would— but his prostate was being constantly stimulated by the sound and now by Clint’s cock nudging from the other side. The cock ring wouldn’t let him get soft anyway. Forced erections were rather painful, but, well, that was life.

Clint guided his bound hands to his face. Murdock gasped, cried a little more—this was the equivalent of making him look in Clint’s eyes as he was taken, and they both knew it.

Clint grabbed Murdock’s hips and made him rock them slowly, up and down, hardly a few inches pulling out of him before he sank back. This was heaven—and for Murdock it was hell, which made Clint’s bliss all the sweeter. They could take it slow. Now that they’d gotten there, they could take their time. Clint liked it that way, anyway. He wasn’t fond of slow _blowjobs_ which always got sloppy in the end and gave the subject time to breathe; but slow fuckings, yeah. Yeah. It gave Murdock all the time he needed to feel it.

Clint wondered if it’d be penitence enough for him. He wondered if he’d broken him enough to inflict irreparable psychological damage. Somehow, he doubted it’d be enough, even though it was clearly a step forward. If Murdock got like this every time he went out to fight, Clint thought as his hips stuttered and he began to come—Murdock felt it, shuddering deeply in response, maybe disgust, maybe something else—if he got like this every time, then Clint had a few more fun nights ahead of him.

 

*

 

The small part of Matt which could still think distantly wondered why he’d thought this wasn’t torture. Why he’d thought this wasn’t pain. Everything was pain. Pain of the body and pain of the mind.

The last stage of his humiliation was reached when Barton unlocked the cock ring and pulled the sound out. Matt’s cock was stretched open, so oversensitive it felt like he had no skin—only nerves, laid out for Clint Barton to light up—and there was nothing in the way of his orgasm. Barton simply reached out and ripped it from him. Matt thought he screamed, wasn’t sure if what he felt had managed it out of his mouth; but he came harder than ever before in his life, so easily it was like pissing himself, strands of pain converging into a single pillar of ecstasy which speared him right through like thunder, making the back of his eyes white-hot for ten full seconds.

He passed out, of course he did. It didn’t happen all at once; it rose in bursts inside him, his senses faltering and failing until he realized what was happening. The last thing he felt was Barton lowering him to the ground, then leaving him there and beginning to put away his things.

All he could feel was gratitude for the silence which took him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clint took a moment, breathing deeply on his chair and enjoying the last tendrils of his pleasure. After a few minutes, he got up, tucked himself in and crouched next to Murdock to untie his wrists.

The rope had printed deep marks into his skin, particularly below the ball of his thumb. This would bruise, fiercely so; suspensions often did. Clint picked up the slick sound which had rolled under the chair, along with the unlocked cock ring, and put them on the table. He walked to the bathroom next, taking off his shirt soaked with Murdock’s come; he dropped it in the hamper, then grabbed a washcloth and quickly freshened up.

Then he went into Murdock’s bedroom and took a clean shirt from his closet—something gray and soft, which made him smile when he put it on. He went back to the living room with the washcloth in hand. Murdock was curled up around himself on the ground, unconscious, tear tracks still fresh on his face, violently shuddering at times. Clint rolled him on his back, then cleaned him patiently, scrubbing off semen and filth and blood, disinfecting his cuts again.

Murdock didn’t wake. He’d sunk deep; his mind had shut down.

He was heavy and dense with muscle when Clint carried him to the bed. He dropped him on the mattress which whined under his weight, then went back to the living room. He cleaned his sounds and scalpel before putting them back in their cloth, rolled up the rope, and stuffed all of it in his duffle back which he zipped shut.

The skies were beginning to clear out the window, dimming the digital cherry blossoms of the Xining Airlines ad. Clint stretched, muscles trembling a little with tension; he relaxed all at once and yawned. It had been a long night. He rubbed the back of his neck, then kicked off his shoes and socks and went back to the bedroom. He lay down next to Murdock’s prone form, drawing the covers over them both. The silk sheets felt fresh and smooth, gliding over his skin.

He wasn’t long to fall asleep, distantly listening to a few birds singing to the rising sun. Next to him, Murdock was still shaking in his sleep.

 

*

 

The alarm clock woke him up two hours later. It was a strange pyramidal thing which announced _“7 o’clock”_ in a robotic voice when Clint shut it down. He lay back drown and burrowed under the covers with a deep sigh, dozing off again.

Eventually, he sat up, ruffling his hair, staring into space for a little while. Then he looked down at Murdock. He was still deeply asleep, in the same position Clint had left him, on his left side. The pale light of the bleak morning made him look younger, softer around the edges somehow. He’d pushed his face into the pillow as if to hide.

Clint lifted up the sheet to take a look at his body. The cuts hadn’t started bleeding again, but they would need stitching. Murdock’s ass, from what Clint could see of it from this angle, was mottled with green and purple and yellow bruises. Clint smiled, then dropped the sheet and got up.

The wooden floor was cold under his bare feet. Something tinkled when he shuffled forward; he crouched and frowned. A piece of broken glass. He picked it up, then straightened up and kept watching the floor as he went, until he’d crossed the room to reach the kitchen island. He spotted more pieces of broken glass, swept underneath the couch or against the wall, gathering in the corners of the room. He shrugged and threw the one he had in hand into the trash.

He was just finishing to make coffee when Murdock came out of the bedroom.

He was fully dressed, in sweatpants and a warm pullover, and thick fluffy socks. Clint wondered if the socks had anything to do with the broken pieces of glass. Murdock had fought someone here. He must have swept the results away the best he could, but there was only so much a blind man could do. And now he couldn’t be barefoot in his own home.

Murdock walked to the counter, treading carefully. He put his hand on top of a stool, as though to steady himself, but didn’t sit down, facing Clint with intent.

“You slept in my bed,” he said quietly.

His unmoving eyes were staring at a fixed point somewhere above Clint’s head. The corners of his lips were faintly curving up, but it was nothing more than the natural shape of his mouth.

“Yeah,” Clint said, pouring him a cup of coffee. “Your couch looked lumpy.”

Murdock tilted his head towards the cup when Clint slid it across the counter, but didn’t take it. “What time is it?”

“Quarter past eight.”

“I’m going to be late.”

“No one’s going to work today,” Clint said. “The city’s been seriously shaken by what happened during the night. Must have thought the skies were opening again.”

“Were you around for that?” Murdock asked, very low.

Clint smiled. “Sort of.”

There was a silence. Clint sipped his coffee.

“Your cuts need stitches,” he said.

It was Murdock’s turn to smile.

“What?” Clint asked.

“I’ve been stitched up a lot,” Murdock said. “I’m used to it. You’ll be disappointed.”

Clint huffed a laugh. Yeah, he’d been a little unsubtle on this one. “Not by someone who was actively trying to hurt you, though,” he guessed. “Might add something to the experience.”

Murdock said nothing to that. When Clint grabbed his chin to make him tilt his head up, he didn’t move.

They stayed like this for a little while.

“So how are you feeling?” Clint asked quietly.

Murdock swallowed, throat moving under Clint’s fingers. “You’re not getting _feedback.”_

A smile tugged up at the corner of Clint’s mouth. He knew Murdock wouldn’t break so easily; but that just meant he’d be digging his own grave a bit deeper before the end.

He still wasn’t sitting down. Clint let go of his chin, folding his hands around his cup of coffee. “Drink a lot of water the next few days,” he said. “Sounding makes you very vulnerable to urinary tract infections.”

Murdock exhaled, then his breath turned into a shaky huff of laughter. He ran both hands over his face and breathed behind them for a minute.

Then he took his cup of coffee, which had cooled down by then, and drank it.

“Stitch up your mess, then,” he said, putting it back down. “I have to get going.”

 

*

 

Matt didn’t understand himself.

He very clearly remembered the night before, how he’d begged continuously in his head for a reprieve, how he’d wished for so long that it would just _stop._ Barton had seriously hurt him this time. Sitting up in bed had been an experience in agony, even by Matt’s standards. And he was still sore inside, in a horribly hollow way which wouldn’t let him forget exactly _what_ Barton had done to him.

Matt had lost something during the night; he couldn’t quite call it innocence or virginity, but he’d lost it all the same.

Yet the memory of pain and humiliation had already turned stale in his mind, like it had happened a long time ago, or to someone else. All was left was the excruciating relief of his spiraling thoughts being annihilated, the devouring rush which had taken him away into a dreamless sleep. And the numbness which lingered now, quieter than anything he’d ever managed to achieve by himself through meditation.

Even thinking of Fisk was making him feel less overwhelmingly powerless. Matt could start moving again, planning again. Barton had carved out the weight on his mind; he’d carved out a lot of other things along with it, but Matt supposed it was the price to pay.

“Sit down,” Barton said, coming back from the bathroom with Matt’s stitching kit and settling on the couch.

Matt tugged off his pullover and shirt, briefly clenching his jaw when it pulled at the ladder of cuts over his ribs. The rub of fabric over his ears was deafening for a second; then he was bare-chested and walking around the couch, guiding himself with his fingers on the back cushions. He didn’t usually need it, but Barton’s presence was throwing him off-balance.

“Why did you stay?” he asked, mostly as a way of stalling. He wouldn’t be able to hide his pain when he sat down.

“’Cause I felt like it,” Barton answered good-naturedly. “Besides, I’m a professional. Aftercare is part of the job.”

“That and safewords?” Matt said, wry.

“Sure, pick one if you want,” Barton said absently. “It’s not like you’re ever gonna use it.”

Matt said nothing.

“Sit down, Matt,” Barton repeated.

Matt sat down. He tried not to show anything, he really tried, but by the time his full weight was resting on the cushions, he was gasping for breath and blinking tears out of his eyes. It just hurt so _much._

Barton put a comforting hand on his thigh and squeezed. He rummaged in the first-aid kit while Matt calmed down.

“Okay, here goes,” Barton said. “Lift up your right arm, put your hand behind your head.”

Matt drew in a sharp, wet breath, then complied, exposing his lacerated side, wrapping his hand behind his own neck. The first jab of the needle was easy to handle next to the throbbing pain of his ass and thighs. The slide of the thread was almost comforting, actually; this particular pain was a family heirloom, after all.

Barton was right, though. Knowing he got true pleasure out of the exercise changed the way Matt felt the pain. He couldn’t help beginning to sink into his headspace again, the same kind of feeling you get when you’re swimming in the ocean and see a big wave coming. The feeling you get before you dive under and let it pass, feel it move your body as it goes, as though you were nothing. Some kind of liquid serenity, of acceptance, of stillness within a moving world.

He wasn’t surprised when Barton tugged at the thread still hooked inside him to bring him close for a kiss. Matt leaned into it, enjoyed the softness of it, took what he could in terms of comfort. It was a quiet, slow kiss, which tasted of bitter coffee.

Matt wanted to be held, to be allowed to rest in someone’s arms for a while; the need for warmth tugged at him, twisted, yanked at his heart. Barton probably knew it, and it was probably the reason why he smiled before drawing back and picking up the needle again, leaving Matt with lips parted and a forlorn ache in the pit of his stomach.

Barton wasn’t hiding his intentions—he was in fact perfectly clear about them—so Matt had no one to blame but himself. He was letting this happen. He must have a reason.

Barton was in the middle of stitching the fourth cut when Matt’s phone buzzed on the coffee table. _“Unknown number. Unknown number. Unknown number—”_

Matt grabbed the phone and tried to shake off the haze clouding his brain before he put it against his ear. “Hello?”

_“Mr. Murdock?”_

“Speaking.” He wetted his lips. “Who is this?”

 _“My name is Sunil Bakshi. I’ve been trying to join you for a few days.”_ The voice was brisk and curt, with a brittle edge to it.

“Yes, I remember. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to call you back. What can I do for you, Mr—” He had to stop and let his breath hitch when Barton tugged at the thread a little forcefully.

Bakshi paused as well. Then he said, _“Is he there right now?”_

“Excuse me?”

 _“Clint Barton,”_ Bakshi said. _“Is he there with you?”_

Matt stayed silent for a few seconds.

Mostly, he was trying to figure out if Barton could hear his correspondent. Probably not. Phone calls weren’t gentle on Matt’s ears, so the volume was always lowered to the minimum. If Barton had heard, he was hiding it well; his heartbeat was steady and tranquil. He was busying himself with the fifth cut now, pinching it close as he shut it with tight, narrow stitches. The repeated punctures jabbed at Matt’s brain and made it difficult for him to focus.

“Yes,” he said eventually. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

He thought he heard a shaky breath at the other end of the line.

 _“I will call you back.”_ He was speaking quickly, hurriedly. _“Whatever you do, do not mention my name.”_

The call ended abruptly. Matt slowly put down the phone.

“Work?” Barton asked.

He was beginning to stitch up the last cut.

“I suppose I’ll find out,” Matt said.

The needle jabbed at him again. The pointillist pain was burning holes into his mind, like cigarette burns. Barton knew it, enjoyed it, _relished_ it, and knowing this—knowing this was like an encouragement to feel the pain differently. Not to let all that suffering go to waste. Give it to someone who could consume it, devour it, give it some kind of value.

 

*

 

By the time Clint cut the last thread, Murdock’s eyes had glazed over again. A minute later, he slowly blinked and straightened up, looking like he was hesitantly expecting something more.

He was tottering on the edge of a drop. It was obvious in the way he’d kissed Clint back, in the miserable look he’d had on his face when Clint had pulled back. This second, superficial plunge wouldn’t help matters at all.

Murdock had other burdens, though, and they saved him from falling down into a single obsessive spiral right away. Or maybe he was just excellent at centering himself. He sat there for a moment while Clint put the needle and thread away; then, when it became obvious Clint wasn’t interested in him at the moment, Murdock slowly got up, picked up his shirt and disappeared into his room without a word.

Clint helped himself to more coffee while Murdock took a shower. He passed the time by trying to catch sight of all the pieces of glasses in the room. Someone should really vacuum this place.

When Murdock came back into the room, fully dressed, buttoning his jacket, Clint realized he’d never actually seen him in his work clothes. The crisp, stark elegance of his suit surprised him, but not as much as its combined effect with Murdock’s dark round glasses.

He looked sinister. Handsome, even beautiful, but sinister.

With the great window behind him, Clint could see the glasses were actually red; the color was lurking within the glass, coming out in brief flashes when Murdock angled his head. Otherwise, the glasses stayed dark, obsidian-black and silver-rimmed. They hid Murdock’s eyes from sight, made it seem like he was looking everywhere at once and right at Clint at the same time. And he _was—_ only not with his eyes. He could probably hear Clint’s heartbeat, could probably still smell the coffee on his lips, or what was left of their arousal in the air. The glasses should have been a reminder of his handicap, but they looked deliberate, just like the tight fit of his suit or the ironic curve of his mouth. He knew how he looked.

Clint wondered who had helped him pick his clothes—probably Nelson, the other lawyer, describing them out loud to him. Clint had no doubt, though, that Murdock had chosen them himself. Clint suddenly felt like seeing him argue in court. Hearing this quiet voice shape something else than tight words and breathless moans. Maybe another time.

“Ready?” he said, getting up, and Murdock just nodded, picking up a thin white cane by the door.

They went down the stairs together and into the busy street, already bustling with people and buzzing with noise even though the icy wind still smelled of charred wood.

“Do you want me to grab you a cab?” Clint asked, raising his arm to hail one.

Murdock’s lips quirked briefly; he shook his head. “Thank you,” he said, “I’ll walk.”

“Be careful,” Clint told him as the taxi drove up to the curb.

Murdock turned his opaque gaze to him, inquiring.

“Fisk is framing you for the explosions, isn’t he?” Clint asked, opening the door and throwing his duffle bag inside. “I don’t mind stitching you up, but I don’t like playing with dead bodies.”

“That’s a nice sentiment,” Murdock said dryly.

Clint smiled in the corner of his mouth, then grabbed his hair and yanked him hard into a short, bruising kiss. Murdock stiffened for a second—they were in the middle of the street—then accepted it, relaxing slightly in Clint’s grip. He was a little breathless when they parted.

“I’ll see you,” Clint said.

He slipped inside the cab and slammed the door shut, then took out his phone. He only had two messages. One of them from Tony _(got you new arrows, Katniss. Come to the lab whenever. xoxo)_ and the other one from Nat. _What are you doing?_

Clint frowned. Maybe they’d expected him the day before. It was true that he’d missed movie night. _Back to the Tower in a bit,_ he texted.

When he looked in the side mirror, he caught a last glimpse of Murdock, slim cane in hand and dark glasses still visible from afar, like the round beady eyes of a crow.

 

*

 

Matt felt odd, and the sensation only got worse with every step. He was unbalanced, like he missed something essential to his very being—but still wrapped up in clouds too thick to do something about it, or even figure out the problem.

He pushed the door of their office building and slowly went up the stairs. He could hear Karen and Foggy argue behind the door two floors up. About him, he realized after a minute.

“Matt wouldn't understand,” Karen was saying. “You know what he would say.”

“That we're awesome?” Foggy answered.

“No, that we're being stupid.”

“I prefer the term ‘foolheartedly provocative.’"

“Yeah, that's lawyer talk for stupid.”

Matt slowed down. Foggy and Karen were—he listened for another minute. Endangering themselves. Investigating.

For a second, Matt saw them following the same path he had, imagined them amidst the shadows and (but his mind was running wild, he shouldn’t have thought that, it made no sense, rationally) he imagined them in Barton’s hands, Barton undressing Karen, Barton hurting Foggy—and he was transfixed with such a rush of pure horror he almost ran up the last flight of stairs.

“Don’t tell me what?” he asked curtly when he came into the office, not even bothering to disguise his inquiry.

“Damn it,” Foggy said, guilty. “You heard that?”

Matt’s heart was still hammering so much he almost couldn’t hear a thing, actually.

 

*

 

He listened to Foggy’s and Karen’s story, and gave them a stern and entirely hypocritical lecture on the necessity of the law. He didn’t care. He didn’t even care that he was lying to them. He just wanted them to be safe.

Matt knew, he just knew they’d soon put themselves in harm’s way again. And he didn’t know what to do. He was just standing there, with the world rushing past the quicksilver fire of his senses. He didn’t know what to do. He’d thought he could take it all upon his shoulders, if it only meant they would be safe. He could suffer forever, if it only meant no one had to suffer ever again.

But Matt had been suffering for a long time, ever since he’d first started to hear the screams and cries of people at night, and the long wail of Hell’s Kitchen had never stopped, making him listen to it over and over and over again until he caved in, until he put on the mask, bloodied his hands, and felt the rush of insane hope for the first time in years, the feeling of finally having done something, having made a difference.

And he’d been fighting ever since, but oh Lord, it was a long road and he was afraid he’d drown in blood before he ever reached the end. There was an itch under his skin, the terrible ache of powerlessness, the pounding pain of others in his ears and nose and mouth. Barton had laughed at him and called him a martyr. Maybe Matt was one, the worse kind, the kind whose suffering meant nothing and whose sacrifice meant even less. But what else could he do? What else could he do but keep damning himself, keep trying to—keep hoping that—

“Matt?”

Matt startled.

“You’re just… standing there,” Karen said.

Matt’s lips tried for a smile. “Lost in thought,” he said.

Her voice called upon a brief moment of lucidity. His thoughts were—something was wrong. With him. Something was wrong. This wasn’t like his usual background anxiety. This was something deeper and colder, like a bullet in his heart, planted there and sprouting death.

He could feel the delicate warmth of Karen’s skin, and he longed for it like a choking man dreams of air. There was a gaping hollow inside him, something which whined and wept and begged, _please, please,_ he didn’t even know what or why but he kept hearing it, like a broken record in the back of his mind, _please, please, please,_ please what? Why was he—but he couldn’t stop thinking that word, _please, please, please oh please—_

“Are you okay?” Foggy asked, very close from him all of a sudden. Matt could hear his heartbeat—Foggy’s heart had always been solid and strong, so easy to hear even in a crowded room. For a second, Matt almost reached out, wanting to feel Foggy’s face under his fingers, like that one time when Foggy had let him touch, let him _see,_ please, _please,_ he needed an anchor, he needed their voices, their warmth, he wanted to tell them what had happened the night before, what he’d been doing and maybe—

“Actually,” he said, “I’m not feeling very well. Maybe I’ll go home early.”

He was going down the stairs when Foggy caught up with him. “Matt,” he said, grabbing his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

Matt licked his lips. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Foggy said. “You didn’t just oversleep last time. There was someone with you, right?”

Matt stiffened.

"Foggy," he said, fear constricting his throat. “How do you know that?”

“Your glasses were on the coffee table,” Foggy said. “You always put them in your pocket when you get home. Except when you wear them inside because there’s someone with you.”

 _Foggy,_ thought Matt with a rush of love which made him ache even more. God, he couldn’t get him mixed up in this. No matter what happened.

“I’ve been distracted,” he said. “I’m sorry. It’s—” he swallowed. “It won’t happen again.”

"Didn't work out?" Foggy asked, sympathy and worry mixing up in his voice.

"It won't happen again," Matt repeated, even though he knew he was lying through his teeth.

 

*

 

Clint only realized something was very wrong when the Tower’s private elevator wouldn’t take him up. The doors closed, then reopened on Natasha, standing there with arms crossed.

He put down his duffle bag. “Nat,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I thought you might be the one to tell me that.” She nodded at the duffle bag. “What’s in there?”

 _Okay,_ Clint thought.

His mind started rushing through the possibilities. No one could connect him to Murdock except for Phil and Maria. Hill didn’t give a shit, but Coulson—Coulson had started acting strange after Clint’s run with Bakshi. It wasn’t really surprising that he’d do something about it.

But Natasha was the one confronting him. Meaning—

“Have you been working on the side for Coulson’s SHIELD?” he asked, smiling a little.

“So have you, I believe,” she said.

He shrugged. “Well, you know what I do.”

“Yes,” she said. “I remember.”

Another silence. He tilted his head to the side. “So am I your mission? Because I’ve gotta say, I feel like you haven’t brought your A-game.”

“It’s informal,” she said. “For now. Coulson didn’t trust you to let go of your latest subject, for some reason.”

“I’m wounded,” Clint answered.

“He doesn’t understand what you are, and he never will,” she said. “But I know you better than he does. I know you best.”

She walked forward, into the elevator with him, and let the doors close. The elevator smoothly began its way up.

“So are you going off-track on me?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Can’t a man have a pet project?”

Natasha’s fist dented the metal next to Clint’s head; he flinched, but it was just reflex, really.

 _“Dammit,_ Clint,” she hissed, inches from his face. “Don’t you remember last time?”

“Last time was different,” he argued. “We still relied on each other. We still depended on SHIELD. I apologized already. Still thought you should’ve stayed out of it, for the record.”

“It kept you from fucking up again. Until now.” She was glaring at him, trying to read him. “Why are you doing this?”

Clint shrugged. “Because I can? We’re not under Coulson’s wing anymore. What’s he gonna do? Tell the Avengers? He’d have to let them know he’s alive, first.”

 _“I_ could tell them,” she said.

Clint blinked. “What the hell for? We’ve just come together as a team. Jesus, Nat, you wanna be kicking the anthill for nothing, be my guest.”

She glared at him, and he sighed. “Look. Are you worried about me? Then don’t tell Coulson anything. Are you worried about _him?”_ he said, nodding at the duffle bag. “Then, Jesus, do _not_ tell Coulson anything. Because this guy I’m handling? He’s enhanced. And if SHIELD finds out about him, he’s going to spend the rest of his life in a cell. For the greater good.” He smiled, briefly. “You’ve been to the Fridge. You know how it goes.”

There was a silence.

“He’s looking to get hurt,” Clint said quietly. “I’ve left him plenty of outs and he didn’t take them. I know I’m taking a risk, but it’s not as big as you think.”

Another pause, even longer. Then she let go of him, stepping back.

“No matter how many justifications you find for yourself,” she said, “this will come back to bite you in the ass. If not with him, then with the next one.”

Clint shrugged. “It’s just Coulson, Nat. He’s been having second thoughts since day one, but he never acted on them. All I’ve done was on his payroll.”

“I won’t be able to have your back,” she insisted, eyes hard. “Not for this.”

“That’s okay. That’s perfect, actually,” he said. “I _don’t_ want you to get involved. And you don’t owe me anymore. Not since Loki.”

The elevator doors opened with a soft _ding._

 

*

 

The walk home was hell. Matt felt like the city was assaulting him, smells and sounds even more aggressive than their usual. He didn’t know how to cope with the nameless phenomenon planting its rotten roots into him. His brief conversation with Foggy had made it even worse, adding guilt to the misery nesting in the pit of his stomach. No matter how much he reasoned with himself, nothing could dispel the tightness in his chest. He vaguely remembered reading the Harry Potter books as a kid. The third volume had always been his favorite, with the Dementors. _Feeling like you’ll never be happy again._

He came back into his apartment. Barton’s smell was everywhere. He’d left his dirty shirt in Matt’s hamper, and he’d slept in Matt’s bed, and he’d fucked Matt sitting on the chair to his right—vivid phantoms of him for Matt to feel.

He went into his bedroom, then crawled under the covers and curled up, trying to find some warmth in himself. His stitches were pulling at him, and when he tried to turn on his back, the pain took his breath away. He hadn’t been able to sit all day. He felt weird, naked, exposed, like Barton was still pushing things inside of him, pieces of metal, fingers, making him spasm.

He thought of Stick, and he thought of his father, and then he tried not to think of anything, because a small lucid part of him could tell his mind was trying to drag him down, working against itself for some obscure reason, and maybe the constricting sadness strangling him would ease its hold if he waited.

So he waited. He lay in bed, slightly trembling at times, eyes wide open, clutching at his pillow, and he waited.

It was a long time before he felt the windows cool down. The night was falling.

He got up with stiff limbs, put on the mask with some sort of deep relief. He needed to move. He needed to do something. To go somewhere. And if Vladimir was dead, maybe the cop Fisk had put in the hospital would know something. It was a long shot, but Matt would have tried anything at this point.

As they say, you fight at your hardest just before you drown.

 

*

 

Bakshi wasn’t picking up the phone.

He always did. No matter the time. It wasn’t even particularly late at night. But the line was ringing into silence.

“Shit,” Clint said to no one in particular, and he got up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suddenly, plot! Don't worry, porn will be back. Thanks for reading and commenting!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is taking longer than my usual - I'm writing a thesis at the same time and it's, ah, time-consuming. ^^' Thank you for your patience!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clint hadn’t done the vigilante thing in a while.

Following Murdock wasn’t easy, but it was the only option he had right now. There was a considerable chance that Clint was worrying for nothing; maybe Bakshi had lost his phone or broken it. Hell, maybe something had happened to Bakshi himself; Coulson wouldn’t have let Clint know.

But if really Bakshi hadn’t answered the phone on purpose, it meant he had orders from his other master. This wasn’t coming as a surprise; Clint had sold Bakshi to SHIELD after he’d broken him, and his hold on the man had been gradually replaced by Coulson’s influence after Clint had started to lose interest in him. If SHIELD knew for sure Clint had pursued Murdock, they might try to contact him, discover his double life, and then—it’d be game over for him.

There was also Natasha. Clint was pretty sure she wasn’t going to intervene, but he’d been wrong before.

All in all, he might not be the only one out there trying to hurt Murdock. At least _he_ was hurting him in a vacuum—or he wished he could’ve, anyway. (His run with Bakshi had been so comfortable in this regard. Preserved as in a petri dish. Bakshi had been a test subject, a bottled experiment kept in sterile conditions; Murdock was running all over the place, collecting influences and attachments that encroached on Clint’s work. But it was also the whole reason Clint was so interested in him, like a dog breeder encountering a wild wolf, fascinated by the raw potential of it, so much to break, so much to shape.)

So Clint was following Murdock at night. He was wearing his old Ronin suit, stealthier than his Hawkeye get-up, and with the major advantage of hiding his smell and body heat. If anyone saw him, they’d think there was a new vigilante in town.

They’d be wrong. Clint wasn’t interested in fighting crime. Not in his spare time, anyway.

In the alley down below, Murdock took another kick to the gut. Clint distantly thought he should’ve brought popcorn. It was the fifth fight of the night and Murdock looked like he was on a roll. Just doing his rounds for tonight, stopping assault and muggings in back alleys.

Murdock let go of his latest victim and ran into the night, apparently still hungry for more. Clint hurried after him, jumping over the gap between the two buildings and following suit. _Doesn’t like it, my ass._ Murdock was probably a sadist, of the basest kind, getting off on the power trip rather than on the pain for the pain, or—like Clint—on what the pain unveiled.

Clint didn’t blame him, though. He too had loved the night, the feel of a mask over his eyes, the feeling of being invulnerable. Hell, he still let himself enjoy the rush every time the Avengers went out for a ride; they’d been taking down a healthy number of Hydra bases lately, some good old-fashioned destruction in which everyone indulged, even reformed-arms-dealer Tony and peak-of-human-perfection Steve. Some hypocrites they all were. Clint loved them anyway—his affection maybe even heightened by their painful inability to be true to themselves. Poor confused, torn guys always finding more reasons to hate themselves, striving to get _better,_ always, always, and failing, always. Honesty came naturally to Clint, but he’d realized early on that most people preferred to deny what they craved, in the name of dignity or humanity or decency.

All concepts that rang hollow to Clint’s ears at the end of the day. Then again, he’d always been pretty tone deaf.

Murdock was approaching an old black man getting into his car. Clint doubted he’d beat this one up; and indeed, after a few tense seconds of gauging each other, they just started chatting. Clint straightened up, stepping back from the edge of the roof. Murdock’s night was done. As for him, he hadn’t spotted anyone on Murdock’s tail—SHIELD agents or otherwise. He could probably call it a night.

 

*

 

On his way home, he called Bakshi. This time, the call went through.

“Hey,” Clint said.

 _“Hello,”_ Bakshi answered, sounding nervous.

“You missed my call last time.”

He heard Bakshi take a sharp intake of breath.

_“Yes—I was in a meeting. My apologies.”_

A smirk hitched up the corner of Clint’s mouth. A meeting. This was reassuring, in a way—Bakshi had no excuse ready, which meant this really had been impulsive and not carefully planned in Coulson’s manner. Natasha hadn’t lied about the informal nature of Coulson’s suspicions. Just a late moral crisis. Using Bakshi was in poor taste, though—especially if they were going to hide it so badly.

“Did Coulson keep you from answering?” Clint asked as he reached the roof on which he’d left his civilian gear.

_“I—no. I assure you—”_

“Sunil,” Clint said icily.

There was something to be said for Pavlovian conditioning. Whether Coulson liked it or not, Clint’s subjects had been taught by him and answered to his voice first. Bakshi was no exception.

 _“Yes,”_ he said. _“Yes, he did, but—he was angry with me and snatched my phone. It wasn’t—it won’t happen again.”_

“It’s not your fault,” Clint reassured him. “Coulson’s your boss.”

Bakshi’s shaky exhale could clearly be heard. The thing is, Coulson _knew_ where Bakshi was coming from; he’d been there every step of the way. So why would he use _him_ to investigate _Clint_ —oh.

Of course. Bakshi wasn’t investigating _him._ He was investigating _Murdock._ Coulson probably thought they’d be able to bond over common trauma or some shit. He really didn’t understand a thing to what Clint was doing.

But then that meant he had no proof Clint had been seeing Murdock. The opposite would’ve been surprising—Clint had taken all the standards precautions—but still, it was good to know.

It also meant they knew Murdock was supposed to be blind, though. They probably just thought he was faking it as a cover for his vigilantism, but still—Clint was glad he’d been out keeping an eye on him.

“Alright, just wanted to make sure you were okay,” Clint said. “Have a good night, Sun.”

 _“Yes—you too,”_ Bakshi said hurriedly, but Clint was already ending the call.

Clint unstrapped his uniform and took it off, then stuffed it in his bag and quickly dressed. It was almost five am and he probably wouldn’t reach the Tower before six, but no one ever gave him shit anymore when he slept till noon. Leaving SHIELD had been the best decision of his _life._

 

*

 

Matt had honestly thought he could make a difference—honestly. Trying to follow the way he’d forced Foggy and Karen on, as to alleviate his lie. But he’d gone to Ben Urich too late. Nothing he wrote would make a difference. Fisk was coming into the light and everything Matt had on him was worthless now.

He listened to Fisk’s whole conference. The man was _good._

_“But I felt the need to speak up for this city that I love with all my heart. No one should have to live in fear. In fear of madmen who have no regard for who they injure…”_

Matt ground his teeth till the final line _— “My name is Wilson Fisk—and together, we can make this city a better place,”_ and only then did he allow himself to snap—shouting in rage and sending his laptop to crash across the room.

He caught his breath, leaning against the table, both hands clenching into fists. He wouldn’t have done this only two weeks ago. Stick had taught him to master his emotions, to keep them coiled tight until they rusted into place inside him. Barton, though—Barton had been walking through his machinery and springs were shooting loose in his wake. Matt could never set it back the way it was, but—and it was the worst part—he wasn’t sure that he wanted to. His skin itched in fact for _more_ punishment. At this point, he had no doubt he’d deserved it, anyway. He’d been so _stupid,_ hesitating for too long, letting Fisk take the lead and now—stupid, stupid, _stupid._

They’d promised Mrs Cardenas they would help, but Matt could not even help himself. Could not help anyone anymore, now.

His phone started chirping from the couch. _“Unknown-number. Unknown-number. Unknown—”_

Matt grabbed it. “Mr. Bakshi,” he said.

 _“Nope,”_ Barton’s voice answered, _“but thanks for confirming that.”_

Matt almost dropped the phone.

 _“You do know he’s working for SHIELD, right?”_ Barton went on, as casual as though they talked on the phone every day. It had been a week since he’d taken something out of Matt and hadn’t given it back. The forlorn ache into Matt’s chest had settled into a background buzz after a while, but he still remembered the rootless, inexplicable despair he hadn’t been able to chase. Barton’s voice alone was enough to make a shiver run up his spine.

“I suspected,” Matt said.

It wasn’t a blatant lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. SHIELD was the only thing he knew about Barton; he couldn’t have made any other assumption. “Why is SHIELD trying to contact me?”

 _“Oh, it’s me they’re after,”_ Barton said casually. _“Hell, there’s your chance of selling me out—I’m not exactly supposed to keep seeing my former subjects.”_

Matt’s mind went blank for a second when he figured out what Barton meant by _subjects._ Goosebumps flew over his skin again. Yet—he was fascinated, if only by Barton’s utter sincerity. He was unlike anyone Matt had ever met in this regard. If there was one thing he’d learned over the years, it was that everyone lied. Even the nuns, even the priests, even his dad, even Foggy—everyone.

But not Barton. Matt didn’t need to hear his heartbeat; his voice, steady, clear, nonchalant, was enough. He was showing Matt his vulnerable points just like he’d offered to get him a safeword. _Not like you’ll ever use it._

“Well,” Matt said, low. “Perhaps I should answer the phone next time.”

 _“Nah, I’ll get him off your trail,”_ Clint said. _“Though, if you wanna report me, go right ahead, but I’d advise against contacting SHIELD. You do know what they do to people like you, right?”_

The note of genuine worry in his voice was too much. Matt exhaled shakily. “Clint, I’m having a bad night. What do you _want?”_

Barton paused—probably at hearing Matt use his first name. When he spoke again, he sounded amused. _“I saw the Fisk conference. Wanted to know how you were doing.”_

Matt ran a hand over his face. God, he _needed_ —it outweighed all the rest at the moment. Frustration was bubbling under his skin like milling red ants and he wanted to scratch his skin off—he wanted—

“I don’t want it like last time,” he warned, remembering the feeling of violation, of being turned inside out. “I don’t want—”

 _“Good,”_ Barton said, without being puzzled at all by the non-sequitur.

Matt’s brain, though, shorted out for a second with Barton’s off-handed comment. “What?”

 _“Now you’re telling me what you want,”_ Barton explained. _“That’s always good. Makes it easier for me and for you.”_

Matt said nothing for a second, on the edge of the abyss. He remembered Fisk’s conference, his halting voice, his brutal words—and he let himself go, eyes fluttering shut.

“Just get here,” he said.

 

*

 

Clint almost jogged up the stairs despite the late hour. He was smiling. Murdock was doing a lot of the work for him, tormenting himself on a regular basis, both mentally and physically; and he’d dropped after the last time, just as planned. He’d been so shaken by it that he was now giving Clint pointers. Always good indeed. The Bakshi situation was more and more in control as well. Clint almost felt cheerful.

Stark had upgraded Clint’s phone in a way that allowed him to scan the room before he entered Murdock’s place; he didn’t put it past him to completely ignore his advice and call SHIELD. But the apartment was free of bugs and of any human presence other than Murdock himself, pacing erratically across the room.

Clint knocked, because his mother had taught him well.

He waited for a few seconds, then just invited himself in. The remnants of a laptop cracked under his boot.

He looked around—the broken floor at the bottom of the stairs caught his eye at once, as well as a few impact marks on the walls. Murdock himself was propped up against the back of the couch, with his back to him.

“You know, people will start asking questions eventually,” Clint said. “The post-apocalyptic chic interior design excuse only goes so far.”

“Shut up,” Murdock murmured. “You’re not here to make conversation, are you?”

Clint raised an eyebrow.

“I know you’re having a crappy night,” he said “but you don’t have to take it out on me.”

“Or what?” Murdock said with an edge in his voice, still without turning to face him. “You’ll fuck me into submission?”

“Nah,” Clint shrugged. “Too easy.”

Oh, this wasn’t his first rodeo and Murdock would find out soon enough. It was about time he tried to fight back, actually—apathy was Clint’s greatest enemy; he’d been trying to rouse Murdock, and he’d succeeded. _Good._

“Too easy,” Murdock repeated in his low, dry voice.

“For you,” Clint said. “It hurts, you give in, you’re done. I’m the one doing all the work.” He shrugged again. “S’not what you’re getting tonight.”

Murdock laughed, harsh and short. “What else could you possibly do to me?”

“Me? Nothing,” Clint said, taking out his gun. “I told you—it’s about what you want.” And he shot him.

 

*

 

Matt felt like he was made of goo. He shook his head, which was his way to blink, but the world didn’t come into focus. It was hot and tight and full of garbled noises.

Someone pushed him upright, warm hand against his back. His back. Had he taken his shirt off? He had, he—he was… naked, he was naked, he—the hand pushed him forward and he fell, catching himself on bound hands. Handcuffs. He was… he’d been thinking about something very important a second ago, he knew. And why did his shoulder hurt so much? He hadn’t gone out to fight yet. Why was he on all fours? Where was he? His hands skittered across the floor, brushed the wood grain. This was—this was his apartment, and he was…

He shook his head again, then realized. _The hood._

He stopped breathing as his brain, galvanized with a sudden sharp pang of fear, helped him piece it together. He’d been standing there, furious, hurting, wanting to tear himself apart and lashing out at Barton— _at Barton,_ dear Lord, and now his shoulder hurt…

“Yeah, I shot you so, try not to move your right arm too much,” Barton said. It wasn’t the leather hood, it was something thinner, warmer—rubber? Latex, maybe—which let most sounds through but fucked with Matt’s echolocation. He couldn’t even tell where he was in the room. The ground was flat and even under his knees, so it wasn’t near the stairs…

“It was an icer gun,” Clint said. “I wondered if it’d affect you more or less, but in the end you’re about average.” He put his boot against Matt’s side and pushed; Matt lost his balance and fell on the floor. “Still a bit wobbly. It’ll pass.”

Matt drew himself on all fours again, limbs shaking. Barton was walking around him, slowly, his boots heavy on the floor. Matt clenched his jaw, swallowed; he wanted to stand but didn’t think he could. He could barely hold himself up as it was. His thoughts were getting clearer, though, and the hood was beginning to panic him again. This one stopped over his nose, leaving his mouth free. It was like a parody of his mask, and it made his gut twist with hot, unexpected humiliation.

“I want this thing off,” he said hoarsely. His voice sounded weird to his own ears—he only heard it from the inside of his head, bottled into his skull.

“It’s good that you’re communicating,” Barton said, “but honestly? You haven’t earned shit yet, Murdock.”

“Get it off,” Matt spat. He raised his cuffed hands to the hem of the hood, fingers slipping on the latex—and Barton kicked him for good this time, sending him sprawling again.

“You don’t really want it off,” he said, walking to him, “you’re trying to get me to hurt you, because Fisk is winning and you can’t stand it and you’re looking to get punished again. News flash: I am not your fucking hooker.”

He grabbed the chain of Matt’s handcuffs and dragged him across the room. Matt was still too weak to fight—he did try, but it amounted to nothing in the end. Barton dropped him when they reached the carpet between Matt’s couches, and sat on the nearest one in a whoof of cushions.

Matt stayed there, panting, shaking, crazy with the feeling that he was stuffed in a box, a fucking cocoon of latex closing around him and he couldn’t—

Barton snapped his fingers next to his ear; Matt startled and saw stars when Barton slapped him hard right after.

“Hey,” Barton said. “You with me now? Get on your knees.”

Matt didn’t move. He wasn’t thinking, hadn’t really started thinking again since he’d woken up, but—he didn’t want to obey. Vaguely, he thought maybe he hadn’t called Barton to get punished this time—he’d called him to get a win in this time of defeat. Or maybe he just did need to take out his anger on someone.

Barton wasn’t going to let him.

“Knees,” he repeated.

When Matt failed to comply again, he sighed.

And then something cold and hard was digging under Matt’s chin. It took him a second to realize it was Barton’s gun.

Barton cocked it, slowly, and the _c-c-click_ was the last thing Matt heard—not because Barton fired, but because everything went silent and still then. After a second, Matt realized it was because he’d stopped breathing and moving so utterly even the faint background grind of his bones and muscles had come to a halt.

He made himself take a breath, and licked his lips. “You said—” talking made the gun shift under his jaw. He swallowed against it. “You said it was an icer.”

“It is,” Barton said, tranquil. “But at close range and up your throat, it won’t make much of a difference.”

“You wouldn’t shoot.”

Barton’s tone didn't waver. “You don’t know me that well.” The barrel was hard and painful against his jaw. “Get on your knees, Matthew.”

Matt swallowed again—throat moving against the gun—then shifted to his knees, resting his cuffed hands in front of him. They were trembling, he realized. The whole of him was trembling.

“Good,” Barton said—the same thing he’d said on the phone call earlier. Matt shivered, swallowed once more against the unforgiving barrel.

“Now touch yourself.”

Matt let out a shaky breath. “What?”

“You heard me,” Clint said. “I told you, I’m not the one doing all the work tonight.”

Matt felt himself blush and hated himself for it. Barton had done far worse to him, but masturbating—well. It hadn’t been a guilt-free part of Matt’s childhood. There was something debasing at bringing yourself to the hard and breathless edge, and doing it for a public was—infinitely worse.

“I’ve got poppers if you can’t get it up,” Barton said. “Or I can force-feed you Viagra if it comes down to it. Just ask.”

Matt took another shaky breath, then lowered his cuffed hands and took himself in hand. He was ashamed—but not surprised, not really—to find himself half-hard. He tried not to think about what he was doing, focus on the sensation only, but the cold chain of the handcuffs was slapping his thigh with every jerk of his hand. It took him two long, painful minutes under Barton’s unrelenting attention. The gun stayed under his chin the entire time.

“Okay, stop.”

Matt let go. He was flushed and the itch under his skin had turned into an actual, physical pain now that he’d lost to Barton too—but it was so easy to lose to him, wasn’t it? Too damn _easy._

“What do you want?” Barton asked quietly.

Matt let out a shaky breath. “I think we’re past you asking me that.”

“Then I’ll just shoot you, Murdock, because you’re wasting both our times here.”

Matt couldn’t hear his heartbeat, not with the thick latex covering his ears. He might be bluffing, but—Matt had always given in to him. His cock was only just beginning to flag, but the humiliation had burrowed into his bones. He wanted nothing more than to lose himself. This was why he’d told Barton to come over in the first place.

Barton sighed, and Matt froze for a terrible second, but the gun didn’t go off.

“It’s alright,” Barton said. “Show, don’t tell, I get it. Give me your hands.”

He put the gun aside, then grabbed the chain of Matt’s handcuffs and pulled his hands up. Matt stayed very still when he felt Barton expertly slip latex gloves over his cuffed hands, adjusting the fingers and thumbs. He then slipped something out of his pocket—rasp of denim—and gave it to Matt.

“Here.”

Matt opened it, ran his gloved fingers over what was inside it. Cold and thin and metal.

He almost dropped the box.

“They’re not sounds,” Barton said with a frank huff of laughter—the look on Matt’s face must have been something to behold. “They’re needles.”

He opened something else, something stringent and acid which assaulted Matt’s nose and made him snort like a scared horse. Disinfectant—and the blander, discreet smell of cotton balls.

“Here,” Barton said. “I guess you haven’t showered yet, so it’s better if you disinfect your skin first. Then you pinch the skin between your fingers before you push a needle in. Try to avoid big veins and don’t go too deep under the skin, unless you want to fuck yourself up in a more permanent way.”

“You expect me,” Matt said, but his throat was so dry he had to swallow and try again. “To do this. To _myself.”_

The anticipation of pain panicked Matt almost as much as the hood did—he didn’t like needles, he’d never liked needles, but the worst part was that Barton expected him to do this to himself. While he watched. While he—the musky smell was eloquent—while he jerked off to it.

Barton chuckled. “Why wouldn’t you?” he asked. “It won’t be the worst thing you ever put yourself through, not by a long shot. If you do it right, you won’t even injure yourself.”

Matt didn’t move. His heart was hammering, blood beating in his ears. Barton sighed, then said in a long-suffering tone, “Fine—you get an incentive for the first one, but I’m really being nice here.” The gun clicked next to his head again.

Barton had to lean forward for it, and he sounded much closer to Matt, suddenly. “Go on,” he said quietly. “Start with your inner thigh. The left one.”

And Matt didn’t have a choice, did he? There was a gun to his head. So he groped for the cotton balls and shakily poured disinfectant on one before wiping at his left thigh. He picked up a needle, pinched his skin, bit his lip and—pushed it through.

It didn’t hurt that much—and he’d had his share of traumatic medical experiences. But the feeling—the cold intent of it, and the fact that he was doing it to himself, for no other purpose than to—to _obey_ Clint Barton and his amused voice. He felt like he should have a reason not to do this, but he couldn’t think very well right now. All he knew was that he wanted to throw up, but that he also wanted to _do_ it because if he couldn’t even handle a few needles, if he didn’t even have the resolve to do this, then how could he hope to ever achieve anything?

This was nothing. He could do it.

The gun went away. They both knew Barton would have never shot him. He didn’t need to. Matt was already picking up a second needle, pinching the skin between gloved fingers. This one hurt more, for some reason; he found himself breathing a little hard, flinching—and feeling with every flinch the needles already in his skin.

“Go on,” Barton said quietly.

Matt pushed a third needle through his skin and was brought on the edge of nausea again. He could feel them—couldn’t feel anything else, three strands of fire stuck into his skin and _staying_ there. He picked up another needle, angled it, pushed it into his flesh—a drop of blood trickled down; he hadn’t been careful. The smell was worse than the disinfectant, an iron tang which weighed on his tongue like a gag.

“Other thigh,” Barton said after a while.

There was something to be said about death from a thousand cuts. The puncture wounds were tiny, but throbbing in time with Matt’s heart, and he felt the row of needles with every twitch of his muscles—and he was beginning to twitch quite a lot, nervous tremors rippling through him every few seconds. When he took another needle, he abruptly thought he could never do it—but he’d taken so much worse that he still did it, endured the sharp piercing pain, then once more, once more, once more, until his right thigh was as abused as his left. He realized hot tears were seeping from under the latex, wetting his lips. He could taste the salt of it. He was trembling, breathless, he wanted to throw up.

Barton popped open the button of his jeans, but didn’t pull his cock out just yet. “Two for your balls,” he said. “Through and through this time.”

Matt swallowed. He was shuddering so hard he doubted he could pick up another needle. Barton’s hand was suddenly on his neck, rubbing down, massaging his shoulder.

“Look, self-torture isn’t easy, I get it,” Barton said. “I know it feels unnatural to hurt yourself, and even more unnatural to hurt yourself down there.”

“I,” Matt began. “I can’t—”

“Sure you can.” Barton’s boot came to weigh on top of Matt’s thigh, slid down towards the inside with its ladder of needles; Matt startled and tried to inch back. “No— _no.”_

He struggled to clear the fog in his brain. There must be a reason—there must be—

“I want you to do it,” Barton corrected. “That’s reason enough.” Had Matt talked out loud? “And I don’t think you want to stop half-way, but hey, I might be wrong.” Barton clicked his tongue. “Your call.”

His foot was still crushing Matt’s thigh down, making it even more painful to be on his knees, but he doubted he’d be allowed to sit back. He swallowed, but he couldn’t stay still for very long, because Barton was fucking right—as always, and Matt had known perfectly what he was doing by inviting him in, and he could do this, he didn’t mind pain, he’d never minded pain, he could _do_ this.

Still. The first needle was hard.

By the time he was done pushing it through the tender flesh, Matt was curled down on himself, forehead almost touching the carpet, trying to muffle the sounds coming out of his own mouth. The gun brushed down his spine, like a caress.

“You’re doing great. Get back up. Another one.”

“No,” Matt mumbled, between two heaving gasps, “no, please, _God,_ I _can’t.”_

Barton just waited.

Matt bit back a sob, then closed his shaking fingers on another needle, positioned it, pushed it through. The pain was so horrible—not even impossible to stand, which would have been a mercy; not bleaching out his brain, but letting him feel every last bit of it, grounding him into the awful moment so he couldn’t _escape_. He yelled this time, couldn’t help it, but kept pushing the needle till it was all the way through, then collapsed onto his elbows, shaking and fighting ragged sobs.

The worst part was that some part of him was _proud._ The pain was mind-rending but he was doing it to himself—he could take it—he could endure. He could _do_ it.

“You’re almost there,” Barton’s voice said, floating down to him to pierce through his muddled brain.

“No,” Matt hiccupped, “no, please no more. Can’t I—can’t I be _done,_ please. Just—”

“A last one,” Barton said. “You didn’t stay hard, but that’s fine, just pull the foreskin back. Go under the flange, come back out through the head.”

Matt really did think he was going to throw up this time. He shook his head hard. “I can’t,” he stammered, “I can’t, I can’t, _please—”_

“Your call,” Barton said, and Matt almost sobbed.

He tried to gather himself together, then gripped Barton’s jeans to pull himself up, found himself clutching at him, pierced and bleeding and violated beyond belief. He shuddered hard for another minute, then managed to let go of him; he picked the last needle and stabbed through the head of his cock the way Barton had told him to, as quickly as possible.

It did nothing to soothe the pain; he bit his fist to muffle his shout, doubling over on himself again, stomach heaving and muscles cramping with the sheer agony coursing through him, pulsing from his groin to his every nerve. Distantly, he heard the slick noise of Barton jerking off, slowly, deliberately.

“Straighten up, let me see.”               

Matt knelt up with a herculean effort, shaking like mad. He knew how he looked. Two dozen needles in each of his inner thighs like tiny silver ladders, two crossing in his ball sack, and that last one through the head of his cock. It hurt beyond belief, like branding irons, like death. Rivulets of blood were trickling down his skin. Barton was jerking off faster; Matt could pin-point the moment where his arousal turned into full-blown pleasure.

Barton could have grabbed Matt and fed him his cock at the moment of climax, but he seemed uninterested in making Matt join the proceedings; he brought himself off with a few silent breaths, like Matt himself would have in the privacy of his bedroom. Then he got up and left him there, moving to walk around the couch.

An involuntary noise escaped Matt’s throat. He heard Barton stop in his tracks, come back until he was looming over his kneeling, tortured form.

“Something you want?” he said.

Matt didn’t want to be left alone. Not like last time. The perspective of removing the needles himself then cleaning himself and bandaging himself and putting himself to bed was—he did enough of that in his own time. This wasn’t what he’d had in mind when he’d asked Barton to come over. He thought—he’d wanted—

“Please,” he began.

He wanted someone to take care of him, to take the pain away, to tell him he’d done good. He wanted Foggy. He wanted Karen. He wanted not to be alone. He wanted help. He wanted someone to tell him it’d all be alright.

But the only option he had was Clint Barton, since no one else knew about both Matt and the Mask.

“You have to tell me,” Barton said softly.

His fingers slipped under Matt’s chin, his thumb rubbed along Matt’s jaw. Matt was still shaking with pain and shock. What if he did speak? he wondered hazily. What if he did ask Barton for help? What would he get then? Clean wounds, a shower, maybe strong arms around him, taking him to bed, covering him, helping him to sleep. He wanted so awfully much to rest.

He opened his mouth, but then a shudder ran through him again and the pain flared bright in his mind for a second. He’d done this. He’d done this to himself.

He’d done this by himself.

“No,” he mumbled, inching back. “Nothing.”

He felt Barton’s pulse stutter, then. In surprise or anger. Matt vaguely remembered he was still cuffed, and in no state to fight. The pain barely let him think. If Barton lashed out at him, there was probably nothing he could do.

Barton knelt down to be level with him. Matt was breathing fast, unable to move.

“It’s always frustrating to work with you martyrs,” Barton said in an undertone. He rubbed the back of Matt’s neck again, grabbing and shaking him a little—the small movement was enough to make Matt’s head swim. “You can’t make it on your own, Murdock. Not even Captain America can.”

Matt just licked his lips and stayed still under Barton’s hand. He was taunting, almost daring Barton to hurt him. And Barton did reach inside his pocket to pull out something metallic.

But it was just a key, which he used to open Matt’s handcuffs. Then he got up and stepped back. “Like I said,” he answered. “You get exactly what you’re asking for.”

A minute later, he was out the door.

 

*

 

“Look who showed up,” Foggy saluted him in the morning. “Rough night?”

It was infinitely easy to smile and lie, so that was what Matt did. “Just having trouble sleeping,” he said. “Am I late?”

“Please, it’s hardly noon,” Foggy said. “I was about to go out and grab Thai. Ms. Cardenas should come by later in the afternoon, so I was thinking of buying some for her too.”

Matt tried to sit down at his desk and realized he couldn’t. His genitals still felt tender and sensitive, and his slacks were putting pressure on the rows of puncture marks along his inner thighs.

He’d passed out twice before he’d managed to remove all the needles by himself, and he’d only managed to drag himself into the shower in the early hours of the morning.

As always, his nights with Barton helped put in perspective what he inflicted to himself in the mask. But the last night had left something cold and dead inside him, like ashes in his throat. A warning that he could not keep going like this for very long. He’d reached a dead end with Barton, mirroring his progress in everything else.

The end, whichever form it would take, was near.

“Foggy,” he said before Foggy left.

Foggy stopped. “Yup, what is it?”

Matt hesitated, then smiled. It was so easy to smile. Even with nothing behind it.

“No,” he said, “Nothing.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter might be the last. Thank you for reading and commenting! ^^


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience. Finishing up on my thesis has been eating up nearly all of my writing time, I'm afraid. Have a good read!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Mr. Murdock?”

Matt tilted his head up. He hadn’t been scanning his surroundings thoroughly enough, but then again, he didn’t expect anyone to accost him out of a morgue. Foggy and Karen were still inside; Matt could smell the salt of her tears from here, could hear him talk in undertones, unable to find anything to say but trying anyway.

What he perceived from the world was blurry, faded, like when he was a kid looking out a window during a rainstorm. He felt frail on a very deep level, unbalanced at his very core. Because Elena was dead and everything he’d done, _everything he’d done,_ it all amounted to nothing.

“I’m sorry to disturb you in this time of grief,” the man said. “But I need a few words.”

He had an English accent. Matt recognized his voice.

“You’re Mr. Bakshi,” he said.

“Yes,” answered Bakshi. “Again, I apologize.”

His heart was beating too fast. For a second, Matt distantly feared this was a trap of some kind. But Bakshi wasn’t nervous about anything of the sort. He was afraid of _Matt._

Matt had no energy for this. The smell of Elena Cardenas’ dead body was still haunting him, lingering, infecting his skin and hair. Another death. His city was dying, crushed and choking slowly under Fisk’s boot, and Matt simply didn’t care anymore what happened to himself. He couldn’t even ask for help. There was only one thing left to do.

He’d decided—he’d always known it would come down to this, and his sessions with Barton had only confirmed it. He’d backed himself into a corner. He could not absolve himself, but maybe his damnation could be of some use to others. He was going to kill Wilson Fisk.

But SHIELD had no part in this story, and Bakshi’s presence was tiresome to him.

“What do you want?”

“I am here about Clint Barton,” Bakshi said, and his entire body reacted to his own words—with a shudder and a flutter of the heart. Matt would have thought he was in love, if Bakshi’s smell hadn’t been so heavily tainted with fear. “My… supervisors would like to know if he’s been in touch. We are concerned for your safety.”

“No, you’re not,” Matt said with lassitude. “You want me to confirm he’s a monster.”

Bakshi’s fear was through the roof. Matt didn’t understand. It was like Bakshi _didn’t_ want him to sell out Barton. He was afraid of what would happen then. He wasn’t afraid of Matt. He was afraid of Matt making him report Barton’s actions. He was afraid of _Barton._

 _My subjects,_ Barton had said nonchalantly, and Matt had no doubt, then, that he was facing one of them. Someone who’d been abandoned to Barton’s whims and shaped entirely by him.

This was SHIELD. This was what they did.

Matt knew he should stay out of this, but he was surrounded by death and it made him do foolish things, like feeling a pang of pity for this skittish, febrile man.

“If they need someone to testify against him,” he said, “why not yourself?”

Bakshi’s shock was palpable; when he spoke again, there was a wan smile in his voice at having been found out. “My word isn’t of much value, I’m afraid.”

Matt wondered why. Was Bakshi enhanced in some way—sub-human in the eyes of his bosses? Or had he been on the wrong side at some point in his life? They must have had a reason to leave him in Barton’s hands.

Maybe he’d just been broken too thoroughly for anyone to imagine he could ever speak up against Barton. He did sound about to collapse with terror just being here, asking Matt to do it for him.

“I’m sorry,” Matt said, “but I can’t help them. Maybe I can help you one day, though.” He got out his professional card and gave it to Bakshi. “If you ever feel the need.”

Bakshi was speechless for a few seconds. When he did speak again, his voice was even weaker. “I don’t think so,” he said, then pulled himself together the best he could. “But thank you for your cooperation.”

And then he was gone, hurrying along the sidewalk.

“Who was that guy?” Foggy’s voice asked, wet and wrecked with grief. He was just coming out of the morgue with Karen in tow.

“Nobody,” Matt said.

He turned away. “You should take Karen out for drinks, Foggy. You sound like you both need it.”

Foggy sounded lost and confused. “And what about you?”

Matt gave him a small smile. “There’s something I have to do first.”

He should have said goodbye, maybe, but he was too much of a coward for that.

 

*

 

No matter how much Clint was looking at it, Murdock was slipping out of his grasp.

He probably wasn’t even conscious of it, himself, but Clint could recognize the signs of a subject beginning to go off the rails. What he’d done to Murdock last night hadn’t broken his resolve: it had strengthened it. Clint had played into his self-flagellation patterns, thinking it would bring Murdock to open up, but he’d underestimated his penchant for sacrifice. Murdock was gathering the last of his strength for a desperate move, one that would surely pull him completely out of Clint’s reach. Death was a pretty efficient way out.

But that wasn’t even the heart of the problem.  Clint was beginning to realize that Murdock was not as untamed as he’d previously thought. Someone else had been there, someone who’d thoroughly shaped Murdock before Clint ever lay a hand on him. He was someone else’s subject. He’d bought into their worldviews, followed them maybe subconsciously. A father or a mentor. It was the first thing Clint had found out about him, that he had a _cause,_ but he’d underestimated to what extent.

Clint shifted on the rough cement and adjusted his rifle. He wasn’t dumb enough to use his bow while wearing his Ronin getup. Hobbies must be kept separate from work.

Murdock had just entered the empty warehouse. It was so obviously a trap Clint wondered how he hadn’t sensed it when Clint himself had had the time to set up his sniper rifle on the roof across the river.

“Hello, darling,” he murmured when Murdock walked within sight.

He was just a shadow in the silver moonlight. The big windows of the abandoned warehouse were still intact; Clint would have to take them into account when he made his shot.

Something fell from the ceiling—a vaguely red shape with something glinting in their hands. Clint adjusted his scope. Was that a fucking ninja? Then again, who was he to judge. This was complicating things.

The first slash of the weapon through Murdock’s flesh surprised Clint. He was so used to Murdock breezing his way through fights—collecting wounds only because he was apparently too dumb to get body armor—that the bright splatter of blood made him startle.

He couldn’t shoot. They were both moving too fast, and the man in red was staying away from the windows. Murdock, though, Clint could’ve easily shot. For a second, he toyed with the idea. Maybe if the guy in red tried to make it last towards the end. Clint knew it might be petty, but he’d never taken kindly to someone else playing with his stuff.

“C’mon,” he said between his teeth. “Block the blade, follow the chain, it’s not that hard.”

But Murdock was being slashed again and again and again, and Clint was debating with himself over whether he should put an end to his misery already; but then something sparkled like a red iron hitting a sword, and then next second the ninja was on fire.

“What the fuck,” Clint mumbled, moving his scope across the room until he saw the leaking barrels of gasoline. “Oh. Nice move, Murdock.”

He wondered if that counted as killing someone. Technically, the guy in red had killed himself. Clint brought his scope back to Murdock, who was lying on the ground. Bleeding out, maybe? Clint might have to call 911 on this idiot’s ass, which would only mean trouble. Maybe he could undress him, throw his Devil’s getup in the river, and then call an ambulance.

He was reaching out to fold his rifle when four more people entered the room.

“Aw, now you’re in trouble,” Clint said. The massive silhouette left no doubt. This was Wilson Fisk. “I told you it was a trap, you moron.”

Murdock couldn’t hear him. He was talking to Fisk—Clint could tell from here, from the way he swayed with each breath in, the sheer effort it took him to talk. He’d honestly never met anyone with this level of endurance, and it was enough to make him harden a little, hips shifting against the rough cement. If Murdock got out alive, Clint would take his time with him. Be patient and precise until he fell apart for good.

Everyone had a breaking point.

Except this was just a nice fantasy. Even if Murdock was getting out alive, Clint couldn’t go on. He was mature enough to recognize it. Murdock was a civilian, and he was also enhanced, _and_ a vigilante on the brink of murder. More importantly, he had people caring for him and a moral code he was willing to die for. Clint didn't have the time and the means to pursue this to the end. No matter how frustrating, he had to step back, for his own safety; but because he was spiteful, he’d come tonight, with the gun, to kill Murdock or save his life, he wasn’t sure, yet.

He might not get to choose, though. Fisk was pummeling into Murdock and in his ruined state, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen couldn’t fight back. Fisk was _just_ behind a wall, between two windows. Clint swore between his teeth and adjusted his rifle again.

“You’re not helping,” he mumbled. “You’re not helping at all.”

Murdock got thrown across the room and Fisk’s shadow turned away, straightening his jacket. Oh. Clint focused on the room again. Murdock was right in front of the window, reeling on the ground. Fisk wasn’t killing him himself. Someone else was going to do it. Glint of metal. A gun. A tall, distinguished silhouette in a well-tailored suit. The man took aim.

Clint fired.

The shot caught Fisk’s henchman just below the heart; Murdock sprang into action and leapt through the window, falling several stories into the water. Clint was already packing his rifle. He couldn’t afford to be found here, and he couldn’t afford to let Murdock drown, either. Call him petty, but he got attached.

A last glance towards the window let him know Fisk had fallen to his knees. Not an ordinary henchman, then. But Clint didn’t have time to wonder about it, and snapped his stuff together before hurtling down the emergency stairs which clanged under his feet.

 

*

 

“Hey. Wake up. Can’t let yourself go right now.”

Matt’s eyes fluttered open. The pain screaming through his body didn’t surprise him. He’d been feeling it even unconscious. He wasn’t really feeling, anyway, his brain disconnected from a suffering too big to be comprehended. Later, the adrenaline would recede and he would puke his guts. He felt like he’d already done it, a raspy, slimy feeling down his throat.

He inhaled and recognized the smell. He was too dazed to be surprised, or shocked, or afraid.

“Barton.” He wasn’t sure he’d said the word out loud. His lips had tried to shape it but he was so weak. Being upside down didn’t help. Barton was carrying him in a fireman’s carry. Matt did his best to sense his surroundings. The smells, the sounds. They were still in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen, getting away from the river.

“Fisk?” Matt tried. No. Not Fisk. His right-hand man. James Wesley.

Matt had felt the whistle and the heat of the bullet, the crash of glass around it. He’d jumped out instinctively. The deadly cold of the water had knocked the air out of his lungs. He was still cold and still wet. Barton had pulled him out of the water. Barton had shot the bullet.

“Is he dead?”

“Who?”

“Wesley.” Matt was slurring.

“I don’t know who that is.” Barton was breathing hard; Matt was heavy with muscle and water and inertia. They were going up a flight of stairs. Matt recognized the smell of wood and dust. He heard the familiar grating buzz of the Xining Airlines sign. They were going home. How could they be there already? He must have passed out.

Maybe he was dying.

Matt twisted. He didn’t want Barton to get him home. He didn’t want to be alone with Barton. But he had no strength left; Barton shifted him back over his shoulder and the air left Matt’s lungs.

What Barton had said came through.

“You killed him,” Matt said. He remembered even as he fell towards the water the rich smell of arterial blood. Heart wounds smelled different. “You didn’t even know who it was.” Wheeze. Breathing hurt. “And you killed him.”

“It’s easy, Matty. It’s the easiest thing in the world.”

Matt twisted again. No. He didn’t want to kill anyone. He’d never meant to kill anyone. Where was he? He wanted to get home. He wanted Foggy. Where was Foggy? Didn’t they have class in the morning?

“Calm down.”

“No,” Matt was panting. “No. Please. Let me down.”

“As you wish.” Hardwood floor suddenly slammed the air out of Matt’s lungs. He wanted to cry out, but no sound left his throat. Barton was bolting the door behind him.

“Stitches first, Matt.”

“No,” Matt mumbled again, trying to push him away, but Barton’s hands were on him, ripping his drenched shirt, exposing the skin. Matt smelled something strong and alcoholic before fire was poured on his wounds. He tried to scream, but there was a hand over his mouth.

“Shh.”

Matt couldn’t breathe. Barton pressed a kiss to his forehead and it made him want to throw up. He’d gone too far. He’d gone too far and now he couldn’t find his way back to the shore. He was…

“Matt?”

They both froze.

“Matt? Are you in there?”

 _No,_ Matt thought desperately, _no, no, no, no, no._ How could Foggy be here?

Barton was still bent over Matt; he got up fluidly, silently, facing the emergency stairs Foggy was climbing. A visceral terror started eating through Matt’s gut then, ripping his innards with its icy claws. _He’s going to kill Foggy. He’s going to kill Foggy._

“Matt?”

 _“No,”_ Matt shouted, and he wrenched himself from the ground, standing on his feet by some sort of miracle. “Foggy, get away.” His throat was filling with blood for some reason, and he spat it on the floor.

Foggy stumbled into the room. “Jesus Christ,” he said, “is—”

—and then Barton jumped out the window.

Matt didn’t understand for a second. It had been so sudden. Barton was there and then he was gone, fleeing like a vampire before the sun.

The darkness was swallowing him. Matt didn’t care. He let himself slip away.

 

*

 

He woke up on the couch. On his couch.

He was so sore and so miserable he thought for a second he was waking up from a session with Barton. But then he breathed in and corrected himself. Barton wouldn’t have been so sloppy in hurting him. His cuts along Matt’s ribs had been surgical and precise. This asymmetry wasn’t like him.

“Foggy,” Matt said, before he could even realize why. Then bits and pieces came back to him. _Barton and Foggy._ “Foggy!”

“I’m here,” Foggy said.

He sounded like he was trying to be angry but his worry was still overcoming it. It was wonderful. Angry meant _alive._ Matt exhaled, deeply.

“Thank God,” he mumbled.

“Thank God?” Foggy started shouting. _“Thank God?”_

Matt closed his eyes.

“Have you seen the state you’re in, Matt?” Foggy’s voice trembled. “You _can_ see. Right?”

Matt’s chest felt tight. Everything hurt, and he was so tired.

“No,” Matt said.

“How can you,” Foggy gasped, “Matt, how can you lie to my face about that? You’re him,” he lost his breath again, “you’re the _Devil.”_

“I’m not lying to you,” Matt said, hot tears rolling down despite himself. “I can’t see. I can’t read computers screen, and I can’t tell what color the sky is, or… or look at your face.” He swallowed. “But I can… sense things. The heat. The airwaves. What bounces off them. Like a bat.”

“You told me bats weren’t blind.”

“Like a blind bat,” Matt said self-deprecatingly.

“Jesus _Christ,_ Matt,” and Foggy’s voice sounded so broken Matt shut up.

There was a long, painful silence.

“Did you shoot those cops?” Foggy asked. “Blow up these buildings?”

“You even,” Matt’s ribs jolted painfully when he fought a cough, “have to ask about that?”

“I think I do!” Foggy was yelling again. “What the hell do I know? Huh? What the hell do I know about Matt fucking Murdock?”

Matt’s tears were rolling down again. What could he say? That Foggy did know him, in the ways that mattered most? That Matt didn’t actually _want_ anyone to know who he was behind the mask? He had no words for it—none that wouldn’t hurt Foggy more.

“You _lied_ to me, Matt,” Foggy said, voice wet and miserable. “Since the day we met.”

Matt turned his gaze to him. He knew his eyes weren’t exactly looking at Foggy, but he tried.

“I lied to you,” Matt said. “Yes. I did. Like I did—” hoarse breath, “—everyone else. I didn’t even tell my dad.”

That threw Foggy for a loop. His voice was hesitant when he spoke again. “Why not?”

Matt coughed a laugh. “What was I supposed to say? I didn’t even understand what was going on at first. And by the time I met you—” he had trouble breathing. God, he hoped his lungs weren’t collapsing again. “You don’t understand. You were the only one who treated me like a normal person. I couldn’t ruin that.”

There was a long silence.

“You didn’t lie to that nurse,” Foggy said angrily.

Matt frowned. “You met Claire.” He focused on his wounds when he breathed in. Yes, he was stitched up. “She found me in a dumpster, Foggy.”

Another silence.

“Matt, I need to yell at you right now,” Foggy said. “About the vigilantism and how you told Karen and me to follow the law when you’re out there beating up people. I really _do.”_ His voice took another tone. Fear, Matt realized. “But you lied to Claire, too. Didn’t you?”

Matt opened his mouth to ask what it meant, but then his phone started ringing on the floor. _Karen. Karen. Karen._ He reached out, but Foggy hurried and grabbed it before him.

“Foggy, Foggy,” Matt said. “Don’t…”

“She deserves to know.”

“Foggy, you can’t tell her— _please…”_

But Foggy was already answering. Matt could hear Karen’s voice. _“Hey, I’m at the office. Where are you guys?”_

“We’re at Matt’s place.”

_“Oh. Is he okay?”_

“Foggy,” Matt tried again.

“No. He’s been hurt. I think you should come over, actually.”

Foggy turned off the phone and threw it on a chair. Matt let his outstretched hand fall back on the couch. “Foggy…”

“No. You’re done lying to people.” Foggy came near the couch and knelt on the carpet. “Matt, what is that?”

He was touching Matt’s chest. The burn marks.

Matt’s eyes filled with tears. Foggy’s touch brushed down the thin, raised scars of the ladder of cuts down his ribs.

“You didn’t get those fighting,” Foggy said.

“Please,” Matt said, tears rolling down. “Please, Foggy.”

“No, Matt.” There were tears bubbling in his voice, too. “Matt, tell me what happened.”

Matt exhaled shakily. “Foggy, I can’t…”

“Why? Because you’re too proud?” Foggy was crying for good now. “Matt, I _do_ know you. I do. I can almost understand everything else. But I draw the line at my friends getting _tortured—”_ he choked on a sob— “and not telling anyone.”

“Foggy…”

“Did you think you could do it alone?” Foggy said. “Claire didn’t know. She was horrified. Did you stitch yourself up after that? And then went to work and lied to my face telling me you were fine? How much have you been doing alone?”

Matt hurt. His chest ached. Foggy almost couldn’t talk through his sobs. “If really you won’t tell me, then I’ll walk out this door and I won’t come back, because I can’t keep being your friend if you won’t let me.”

“You’re my friend,” Matt said desperately. “You’re the only friend I’ve ever had.”

“Then why didn’t you _tell_ me?” Foggy almost shouted.

“Because I don’t want you to get hurt!” Matt yelled even louder. His own shaking hand was hovering over his chest, over Barton’s marks on him. He swallowed. “And if I tell you what happened, you will go away.”

Foggy inched closer and hissed, with more venom than Matt thought him capable: _“Try me.”_

Matt swallowed again.

“For all the times you came into work bleeding under your shirt, Matt,” Foggy said. “Try me.”

There was a long silence. Matt was shaking. There wasn’t anything else to do, wasn’t it? Either he spoke or he didn’t.

And he was so, so weak.

“About a month ago, I was captured,” he said, stumbling over the words.

“Fisk?” Foggy murmured.

Matt shook his head jerkily. “No. No. A third party. They thought I was with Fisk. So they—” he gestured at himself. “Tried to know.”

“Jesus,” Foggy said. “Jesus _Christ.”_

The ladder of cuts wasn’t a month old, though, and they were both aware of that.

“I didn’t say anything,” Matt said. “But the t—” he swallowed. “The man who handled me. He found me. He offered me to do it again.”

“He _offered_ you?” Foggy said, incredulous. “And, what, you said yes?”

He’d said it scoffing, derisively, like it couldn’t be imagined. Matt gave him a poor, wan smile.

“This is the part where you walk away.”

The silence was heavier than anything Matt had ever heard.

“It was him, wasn’t it?” Foggy said.

Matt blinked. “What?”

“There was a man,” Foggy said. “I couldn’t see him well, but you tried to fight him. You yelled at me to get away.”

Matt swallowed. “I couldn’t let him,” he said. “I couldn’t let him touch you. Not you. Foggy.” He reached out. “Foggy, I'm so—”

Foggy grabbed his hand. Matt was so surprised he shut up.

“Matt,” he said. “I’m going to shout at you, I really am. A lot. But not over that.”

Matt just stayed still, like if he tried hard enough he could see Foggy’s face and understand what he meant, because right now nothing made sense.

“Foggy,” he tried. “You don’t understand—I—”

“No, I don’t,” Foggy said. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m sure you had a reason. I’m sure you _found_ a reason.” His voice trembled. “Or maybe you didn’t, maybe you just let him do it because you couldn’t think of a reason _not_ to. And you think I'm walking away from you knowing this? Knowing what you've been doing to yourself, all this time, all alone?"

He swallowed thickly. “God,” he said with more tears in his voice. “God, I’m so _fucking_ angry at you, Matt,” he said. “And yet I can’t even storm out of here right now, because I have to prove you wrong.”

Matt’s tears were burning him on the way down. He swallowed too, thick and hard, and held harder onto Foggy’s hand even though he shouldn’t even have touched him.

A door slammed lower in the building.

“It’s Karen,” Matt whispered.

“How did you—no, you know what, okay,” Foggy said, wiping his tears. “I’m gonna let her in. And you’re going to tell us everything, from the top. And then we’ll decide what to do. Together.”

Matt shook his head, tears rolling down his face. “Foggy, you don’t have to—I'll understand if you—”

And then Foggy’s arms were around him. It was the most awkward hug, because Matt had to half-twist up and Foggy had to half-twist down, and Matt’s wounds hurt so much it felt like dying and Karen was climbing up the stairs, but—but—Matt found himself clinging to Foggy, clinging so _hard,_ and crying in huge, baffled sobs.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m sorry. I’m _sorry.”_

“It’s okay,” Foggy said, “it’ll be okay," and it hurt more than anything Barton had done to him; but it hurt the way Matt had sought without ever reaching—in a _good_ way, like all his faults were being carved out of him.

 

*

 

“There’s got to be _something,”_ Phil said. “Something you can give me.”

“Careful, Coulson,” Romanov said distantly, adjusting the Captain America action figure on his shelf. “I’ve already told you not to push. Barton isn’t your subordinate anymore, he's part of the most powerful tactical team of the planet, and I can’t reassure him about you forever.”

Phil clenched his hands into fists. Romanov turned to him, then putting a hand over the file sitting on his desk—the file she’d gathered for him. _Nothing to report_ in big bold letters at the end.

“I stand by what this says,” she said. “Barton is clever. You should know. He’ll toe the line, but he won’t cross it. And he knows how to clean up after himself. No one saw his face. The team’s integrity was never in danger.”

“This isn’t a matter of PR,” Phil said.

“Do you really have time for this?” Romanov asked. “Hydra’s still out there. You’ve lost Johnson. And rumor has it your own men aren’t as faithful as you’d like them to be.”

“How—never mind,” Phil said. She always knew, of course, and he had his suspicions about Bobbi and Mack, but—hearing her say it out loud was chilling.

Because Phil had trusted Barton, and Barton… hadn’t turned out well. What if it happened again? He was the director of SHIELD. He couldn’t allow any new mistakes, not on this scale. Cleaning up his old ones might prove impossible already.

Redemption was unattainable, he knew. But maybe he could prevent more disasters from happening.

He ran a hand over his face. “This isn’t a matter of PR,” he repeated. “He’s _hurting_ people.”

“And you’re paying him for it,” she said.

“He’s hurting _civilians.”_

“I can neither confirm nor deny Barton was involved with—”

“Don’t you _care?”_ Phil yelled.

He was losing his temper. Which shouldn’t happen. Fury would have stayed calm; Fury would have handled this.

But then again, Fury would have probably found no flaw in Barton’s behavior altogether.

Romanov looked at him. “You understand very little to what Barton does,” she said. “Even though you were the one to train him.”

Phil swallowed. He remembered the first days. He’d _liked_ Barton. Some days he’d almost thought they could be something more. Something good.

“He doesn’t lie,” Romanov said. “He doesn’t trick. He strips people bare and gets to the truth of them. It’s a connection you can’t compete with.”

She turned away and went for the door, conversation over. Phil bit the inside of his cheek hard, closing his eyes. He’d thought Romanov, of all people, would get it. But he should have known better. He should have remembered where she came from.

“No,” Phil growled. “I’m not accepting this as an excuse anymore. It’s exactly what Bakshi says—it’s exactly what you _all_ say.”

She glanced at him, just before she left.

“Maybe you should volunteer to be his next subject,” she said. “Maybe then you’d understand us.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(It was five months later. Fisk was locked away, but the world was still on fire.

Today, literally so.

“Matt?” Foggy was coughing. “Matt? Where are you? Matt!”

Matt could feel people running around them, frantic blurs of heat rushing to safety. Dust was falling like hail from the heavens, and his ears were still ringing from the explosion. Foggy was there, crouched under a fallen awning; Matt ran for him and helped him get to his feet.

“You lost your cane,” Foggy said.

“Doesn’t matter.” Matt pulled him away. “Come on. There might be more.”

“Don’t you—” Foggy coughed again, but he was clutching at him. “Don’t you dare go full Daredevil now.”

“It’s daylight,” Matt said. “And it’s a flying man on fire, Foggy, it’s a little out of my league.”)

 

(Something made him grind his teeth, a high-pitched whine coming closer _fast._ He covered his ears with a groan.

“What is it?” Foggy said. “Matt? I— _oh,”_ he said when it became audible for him, too; he looked up and the whine shrieked past them, over their heads and towards the shape pirouetting in the clouds.

“Holy fuck,” Foggy said, “holy fucking shit, that’s _Iron Man!_ Did you see—I mean, can you hear him? Feel him?”

There was a burst of flames over their heads, and the screeching whine of a repulsor firing.

“I can hear him alright,” Matt said, wincing. “We shouldn’t stop moving, come on.”

There was something else. A heartbeat, incredibly loud, enough for Matt to hear it from two blocks away. A strange vibration was coming towards them, something melodic and yet very brutal, like a metal bat whistling through the air.

“The Hulk,” Matt panted. “Captain America. They’re coming this way.”

“The _Hulk?”_ Foggy squeaked.

“Foggy, we have to go—”)

 

(The smell hit Matt like a freight train.

He would have collapsed if not for Foggy hanging onto him. He looked around him frantically, even though he did not see. Why—how—and _why now—_

 _Up there._ He looked up but New York was full of fire and fury and he couldn’t make out anything. The shape of a man on top of the building—

—there was a light _twang,_ the whistle of an arrow and a humongous explosion right after.

Matt grabbed Foggy and ran.)

 

(“Are you okay?” Foggy said later, still a bit twitchy even after a mug of solidly spiked coffee. “You look a little shaken.”

“It’s the noise,” Matt said, and he wasn’t lying, but he wasn’t telling the whole truth, either.)

 

(Matt dreamed of _him_ that night; and in his dream, he loved it so much he came before he even woke up; and after that he lay awake for a long time in the dark, eyes wide open, sticky and sweaty and hot, catching his breath, hanging onto the heartbeat of Foggy sleeping in the other room.

There was an itch under his skin. It might never go away.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments always make my day. ^^
> 
> For those interested, there are two more installments left before the end of the series. Coming next, and coming soon: the prequel of how Clint got into SHIELD, how he met Coulson and Nat; and how he became who he is.


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